Ceilo di Spada
by The Dormouse
Summary: Revived story. What happened to Michelo after his match with Domon and the Shining Gundam?
1. Decent

The code of omerta, if put into words might say: "Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward. Whoever cannot take care of himself without police protection is both. It is cowardly to betray an offender to justice, even though his offenses be against yourself, as it is not to avenge an injury by violence. It is dastardly and contemptible in a wounded man to betray the name of his assailant, because if he recovers, he must naturally expect to take vengeance himself. A wounded man shall say to his assailant: If I live, I will kill you - If I die you are forgiven."  
From The Rise and FALL OF THE CLEVELAND MAFIA - Rick Porrello (1995)

Decent

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Leaning over the sink in his stone jail cell, Michelo Chariot was soaking his frosted pink hair in dark red liquid to dye it back to the Ruby Red it was supposed to be; a tablespoon of the dark liquid to a gallon of water fixed everything so he looked, if not felt, back to his normal self.

He threw his hair back and ringed the extra liquid out onto the stone floor below. It looked like chicken blood; then it was just the old government game of 'hurry up and wait'. Wait for Belchino to finish whatever he had to get done so he could get brain raped by one of the most respected men in the business.

Michelo rubbed his latex-coated wrists disdainfully, sitting on the hard cot the police had so graciously provided. He was still in the MTS of the Neros Gundam, but he wore his jacket on his shoulders like the prisoner captain he was.

Inspector Belchino, meanwhile, was currently trying to clean up the remains of Domon and Michelo's battle. The Neros still technically belonged to redhead, despite being disqualified, but he'd had little use for it as long as its head was gone. Someone, probably some of Michelo's men, had carted away the Neros when they had the chance. Where it was was now anyone's guess, though few really cared.

Domon's pretty lady friend had since cleaned up Neo Japan's share and had carted their gundam away and Belchino was in a remarkably good mood now. With Michelo captured, he'd just taken care of one of Rome's worst gangs. Michelo's friends had since scattered like rats, but with the leader in the authority's possession, they were as good as arrested.

Just like that, Rome had gotten out of the fray. It had been too easy.

In a uncharacteristic, tragically soft, hopeless tone, Michelo spoke to Officer Mezzina, who was on duty,_ "Official Mezzina? Avere una coffe di tazza, per favore?"_

_"Come lo prendete?"_ he asked, unsure as to what Michelo was planning, surprised at the sound of his voice that used to be so confident and mocking. Surprised right into obedience.

_"Nero."_ The boss responded.

Warily, Mezzina kept his eyes where he could see everything the gangster did as he poured coffee. Michelo wasn't his usual, scheming, terrorizing self and supposed to be safely paranoid, as all good _mafioso _were. Mezzina had to watch for these subtle warning signs. Especially in the volatile and defeated, when it was easy to be crazy because there was nothing to lose.

Morning light had finally reached this side of Rome, and Mezzina decided that he should have a cup as well. He added cream and sugar to his, and added nothing to Michelo's. He readied the tazer should Michelo try to strong-arm him into letting him go and made damn sure that the criminal saw it as he handed the straight black drink to him.

"Grazie." said the criminal, sipping the steaming hot coffee.

_"Alla salute,"_ Michelo continued, raising the cup, "to the beginning of the thirteenth gundam fight."

Mezzina raised his Styrofoam cup as well, _"Alla salute."_

They both drank to what would guarantee to be a shitty year.

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First morning business was the interrogation of the mafia boss Michelo Chariot. From the looks of things, this punk rocker looked more like a collage junkie then a real terror to the Roman populace.

In this brightly lit interrogation room, Michelo looked worse for the wear; his hair, although once again the blazing red it usually was, was wet, untidy and unkempt. His bangs assumed their natural position drooped over his eyes. His eyes were downcast from the debilitating defeat he had suffered at the hands of Neo Japan, and his posture suggested submission; hands folded, placed between his knees, feet crossed, head down, and a hopeless, melancholy expression.

Belchino cleared his throat. "All right, Michelo, let's get this over with, so why don't you cooperate? This will all go much easier."

Michelo said nothing.

"Let's start with names, who are you working with and who are you working for?"

Michelo said nothing.

"What are your friends' names? I already know Lete and Cameron, so who else is in your gang?"

Michelo said nothing.

Belchino had plenty of patience when he was the one holding all of the cards; he was used to this kind of silence, he smiled coyly and said, "Listen, Michelo, I promise they'll go easy on you if you just cooperate. If you give us enough, you'll do ten to twenty years, tops. Not the first time you've sold out"

The older man was probing for an emotional response; shellshock would be typical in a situation like this.

Michelo said nothing.

"Silenzio? You know, you're not going to get arrested for the damage to our city, unfortunately, because of the supplement to Article Seven of the Gundam Fight. Do you know what it is?" Damn, maybe that fight gave his brain one knock too many. Perhaps this had been the thing to finally break Michelo Chariot.

"Destruction of property on Earth due to the Gundam Fight is not considered a crime." The mob boss recited weakly.

"Okay, you can talk. I was worried."

Michelo smiled a second, a creepy fleeting thing. Then he was frowning worriedly.

"One last thing," Belchino looked away and smiled like a grandfather.

Michelo looked up.

"Where'd you come up with that fucking name?"

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The criminal was placed back into his cold stone cell. Now, as Michelo had gotten over the initial shock of having his whole world collapse around him, his thoughts turned to his predicament. He had let down his family; without his gundam or gang, he was useless.

And the only way to stay alive in the game is to have what the others have not.

At the thought of his life heading for the much worse, he instinctively closed his eyes. In a fit of hopeless feelings and despair, he pulled out a silver mint tin- his favorite color. There were no mints in that tin, however, but a colorful collaboration of pills. Adderall, Oxycodin, Perocet; the tin was full of prescription synthetic opia-no.

Suicide wasn't the answer. He wasn't fucking Nero. And just like that, his mood improved.

"Whew! What the hell was I thinking?" he laughed nervously, as if afraid he might think of killing himself again.

"We're getting paid trying to figure that one out." Mezzina said, not looking from his newspaper. The corpse of the Neros Gundam was clearly visible on the front page. And like heat, anger lashed out suddenly.

"Get that out of my face." Michelo demanded.

"Fuck you." Mezzina said, not looking up.

"Come 'ere then, boy." Michelo waved to him with his index finger.

"Little early to be starting on that, isn't it?" Mezzina hadn't even looked up.

"I got candy…." Michelo rattled the tin of drugs. Mezzina looked up then.

"How'd you get those in here?!" Mezzina arched an eyebrow.

Michelo smiled coyly, "That's a professional secret."

Setting the paper down on the desk beside him, Mezzina stepped over to the cell with his arm stretched out.

The redhead gently grabbed the officer's wrist and traced his veins with his thumb; a rosy blush spread across Mezzina's face and he looked into his captive's eyes, who had to make a conscious effort not to cross his eyebrows. Like that kid had said, he was just a normal guy without his powers. Even with that ridiculous red hair, he still looked like a decent guy….

As if they were about to dance, the redhead led the man closer and closer until only the bars of the cell separated them. In fact, Mezzina had his right arm entirely in the cell with the prisoner.

As in almost all humans, Mezzina had always wondered what the proverbial other side was like. To do and say practically anything without consequence, even murder, was a fascinating concept. After all, who didn't dream of giving into every desire, every spasm of lust?

It wasn't necessarily Michelo Chariot himself, but what he represented that was so alluring. At least, that's what the cop liked to tell himself; homophobia being what it was.

Their lips met, but there was little wiggle room with their faces sandwiched between the bars. Mezzina's hands were in Michelo's hair. Michelo's hands were roving over Mezzina's back, right along the belt line.

The alarms went off in the cop's head

_Shoulda seen tha-_

Crack.

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Michelo might not have been the strongest gundam fighter, but he was still the best fighter in all of Neo Italy. And he was completely moral free to boot.

Using the pistol he's smacked Mezzina in the head with, the criminal poked and prodded in his jacket until he found the keys and 'cuffs.

Then came the fun part. First, he put Mezzina's hat on, miraculously fitting all of his hair in there. Then he stripped him down to his underwear.

With the exception of the hat, nothing fit. Michelo wouldn't be running anywhere without hurting himself and any progeny he might one day produce. Leg muscle rippled under denim like steel cables and Michelo's toes were crushed inside brown loafers that strained to hold the entirety of his huge feet.

"Don't I look great?" Michelo asked quietly, twirling around like a model. The world was distorted through Mezzina's glasses and he felt a headache forming.

Mezzina, half-blind and gagged with a pillowcase, growled.

"I think so too, even if it's a little gay."

Mezzina had a good comeback for that, but because he was bound, gagged, and unable to tell anybody anything, the world will never know what it was.

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Things were too quiet.

Belchino had plenty of experience with Michelo Chariot in both poles of his rapid-cycling mentality.

Manic or depressive; Michelo was rarely quiet for more then a few minutes without at least one wisecrack or quasi-religious/anti-religious tirade. The aging inspector preferred the wisecracks, personally.

Cocking his gun, Belchino went to check.

The first thing he saw was Mezzina on the floor, mostly naked with his wrists cuffed to the cell door as though he were into S&M.

"Che cosa?!" the Inspector demanded.

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Michelo walked unnoticed though the Roman streets. Around him, everyone was talking. Neros this, Michelo Chariot that. Smug with his cleverness, The ex-fighter let it show on his face. Nobody seemed to notice. Even if they had, it was not likely that they'd care. Public attention and knowledge was very short. They'd forget him until he pulled a nice big job; one that included major property damage and a heaping helping of casualties.

The mood turned on a dime. The pastel-clad madman scowled. There wouldn't be any big jobs anytime soon. Michelo Chariot and his _Brigadi Neri_ would have to go on the defensive. As he walked, the Christianis (Their leader was his ex-best friend) to the east and the Giamonnas (Their leader was his ex-wife) to the south would be working on an offense to acquire more territory (because both were on his flight crew).

Michelo vaguely considered the possibility of fixing his gundam, but he might as well had conspired to steal the moon.

He had to get back to the base, reassemble his men, then bunker down for a defensive war. No doubt his enemies were maneuvering against him ri-

Shots rang out, causing the crowds of innocent bystanders to scatter. Michelo might have sworn had he not been shot in the back. He slumped over a cafe table, watching in shock as his own dark blood pooled on the soft green marble.

"Payback's a bitch!"

Michelo felt hands roughly cuff him as the world darkened.

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In the Tiber River, which runs through Rome, there is a tiny island called Isola Tiberina. Legend has it that the hated tyrant Tarquinius Superbus was murdered and his body was dumped in the river. The sediment that formed around his body eventually made up the Isola Tiberina. Ever since that island had been used to quarantine the sick during the Roman Plague of A.D 1656, it was thought to have mystic healing properties. Because of this, it later became the site of Rome's Hospital Tiberina.

As if in testament to the saints and martyrs called to protect it, Tiberina had stood the test of time; it was one of the few Roman buildings untouched by the Gundam Fight. The only place in the area in better condition was the Vatican itself.

In this very hospital, its medical staff was trying to keep Michelo Chariot from dying. A sucking chest wound wasn't called that because they sucked. They were called that because the open wound into the lungs sucked in air and created pockets of foreign matter that displaced vital organs and eventually crushed them.

They were the things soldiers had to learn to fight. And Michelo was nothing if not a vigilante solider.

Michelo saw a bright white light, which he summarized as he being dead. Instead, it was a hospital room. He slipped in and out of consciousness, hearing garbled voices. They shoved a large needle between his ribs to drain out the air. He was conscious long enough to see that he was in a white room; the images around him blurred. By the white figures, he decided that he was either in an asylum, or heaven. From the burning in his throat, the stench of bile, and the pain in his chest and stomach, it could not be heaven. He was also a criminal, which further slimmed that chance.

_"Ha rifinito il vomito;"_ said one man in a firm, professional, tone, _"faccialo girare." _

Michelo felt hands slowly and gently roll him on his back. His head swam and he tried to sit up, but hands gently forced him back down.

"Signore Chariot, can you hear me?" asked an official voice. Michelo nodded.

"Do you know where you are?" the voice continued.

The fighter shook his head, then he passed out cold.

"You know, I'd probably have gotten a medal if I'd finished the bastard." Mezzina fumed. Belchino smacked him in the face.

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"You're in bigass trouble."

Michelo snorted and looked away. He was in the hospital ICU, dressed in white, with tubes in his forearm and nose. His hair splashed on the pillow made Mezzina think of gunshots.

"No shit."

"The Inspector's daughter's getting married, so I'm handling this."

"They trust you with me?" He giggled.

"You better shut the hell up, asshole."

"A man after my own heart!"Michelo arched his back, he was laughing so hard.

Then he turned blue and coughed until he could breathe again. He covered his mouth with his right hand because his left was handcuffed to the bed.

Mezzina smiled more like Michelo and cleared his throat, "Remember that psych-evaluation you got before you became fighter? Well, you're getting a new one. "

The humor ended.

Michelo was sitting up, pale as chalk, with the most concerned, shocked expression on his face, "What?! Why?!"

Mezzina looked bored, "You know why."

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It was an absolute disaster.

The doctor spoke to him in a voice not unlike a news reporter. Michelo absolutely hated this man.

"Michelangelo..." he started.

"It's Michelo, asshole." No, he wasn't going to cooperate. No way. He wasn't going to let some asshole who didn't even know him decide weither or not he was crazy, which was all subjective anyway. Michelo ringed his hands angrily.

The doctor shrugged and removed his glasses, "I don't want to do this any more then you do, signore. Will you please just cooperate?"

"No." Michelo was looking out of the window. His arms were folded.

"Did your last test reveal anything you didn't expect?"

The gangster whipped the wall behind him with his hair snapping his head to face the doctor. He pointed threateningly, "I am not fucking-"

"Crazy? That's a very general word."

"Sick." Michelo finished.

"Why so adamant? I mean, if you had a cold or the flu, you wouldn't be so defensive. Why is your psyche any different?"

"A body is a body." the patient snarled, "What's in your head is all you."

The doctor nodded, "And if you're deemed mentally ill..."

"Then that's like saying that what you're doing and how you think isn't really you. It's the sickness. It dehumanizes you. Turns you into a malfunctioning machine."

"You're not a machine, Michelo."

"No, I'm not." He folded his arms and looked out the window, "Damned right I'm not."

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He was escorted to the psychiatric ward literally kicking and screaming.

For the first seven seconds at any rate. To Michelo's credit as a fighter, it took four shots of the 'good stuff' to get him docile enough to be carried. It's amazing the thoughts one things when they're hopped up on psychoactives. He smiled like a joker, baring his prominent canines.

"How you feelin', signore?"

"I'm in an irrational, murderous rage, but I'm too sleepy to act on it." Michelo nodded his head.

"Then you're good."

Oh, how he longed for revenge, now that he had time to think about it. Revenge on everyone. Domon Kasshu, Inspector Belchino, Rain Mikamura, Officer Mezzina, then everyone in general. He could feel the cold and mental stares of random patients at this asylum he was being committed to, but he avoided them. Anger boiled deep inside him.

_They think they know everything, I'll show them all..I'LL SHOW THEM ALL! YOU CAN'T GET RID OF ME!_

He expressed this sentiment by giggling happily.

"I'ma kill you all." he snickered.

The guards just smiled and shook their heads.

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Michelo stared at the ceiling. He couldn't move very well-his arms were pinned down by the straight jacket and the rest of his body was strapped down on the stretcher. Two very buff, grim looking guards were carrying him to his room. He could hear weird cries and moans coming from the other rooms that he passed, yet they didn't phase him. He was deep in thought, dreaming up a way to get the fuck out of here, but every idea was more ridiculous then then last.

Because he'd been shown to be an explosively violent man, they decided to keep him in isolation until he could prove his stability. Michelo was looking at several weeks of isolation. Just wait until the medication wore off.

They set him in gently and loosened the straps on his jacket so that he could do things like scratch his face and claustrophobia wouldn't set in. Michelo curled up and took a nap while they moved him to a hospital better able to accommodate long-term patients.

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An unseen band was playing 'Stardust', though Michelo never liked lounge jazz.

Michelo was wearing his best suit in a box of a room. He sat at an octagonal table, on a fine silk pillow. He looked down at his teacup, it was filled to the brim with blood. Behind him was a mural of a large red sparrow. In front of him, where the host was sitting, there was a dragon. On the two other walls was the tortoise and the tiger. Michelo was too afraid to look up for some reason.

His host was the clockwork devil.

This clockwork devil sipped blood, so Michelo did too. It tasted like the person had been drinking heavily, or maybe the blood was alcoholic. Anyway, he liked it in the dream.

"I will give you perfection in exchange for your soul." The devil was right to the point.

"Why do you want souls?" Michelo asked, setting his teacup down. His was decorated with red sparrows. The devil's had blue dragons. Michelo was seeing an oriental theme going on.

"Misery loves company." The devil took a sip, "And I need your help, Michelo. I can't do it without you."

"Do what?"

"Kill God."

When Michelo finished his cup, he set it down and closed his eyes to sigh.

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He was awake when he opened them again.

And he was enraged all over again. The blood was in his mouth still, until he realized that he'd been chewing away at his own lip. Unlike the dream, there was no ethanol in it and he thought it was disgusting.

Why didn't an orderly stop him or something?!

Michelo sprayed the walls with spit and blood trying to purge the taste.

"Sick!" He shook his head, creating a red cyclone around his head. When he stopped, it was a curtain.

"Hey! I'm bleeding!" Michelo called to the door, "I've injured myself in my sleep! You'd better come help me!"

Nothing.

"What the crap?!" Michelo exclaimed. He had a feeling that he wouldn't be seeing the light for some time. In frustration and fury, he slammed his head harmlessly against the wall. Not that it did any good. It was made of plush. Just the white squares of plush. Maddening, maddening plush. He dug his heels into the floor. Still, nothing. Finally, he let out a scream to cut through the silence. It swarmed around the room like locusts, eating away at his mind. When he stopped, he had a headache.

The silence returned with a vengeance; angry, he could almost feel it crawl into his ears and mouth and nose and eyes. The redhead was beginning to hear what he could have sworn was the rotation of the earth. A sound not unlike white noise, maybe red noise, filled the air. The more he fought it, the more noise he made, the angrier the silence returned, bent on destroying him with its vacancy.

So Michelo lay down on his back, defeated, "God Almighty or Satan the Devil, if either of you can hear me, answer my call. I'll do whatever it takes to wreck my vengeance on those who have wronged me. Please, hear this mere mortal's cry." The disqualified fighter called. From the outside, he must have sounded quite insane. But he cared not, he was desperate now to call the religion he had long since abandoned as a child. He threw himself onto the god he'd forsaken once more.

"I'm sorry for turning my back on you. But please, he who cares most of this decaying Earth, smile upon this wretched heretic. Take pity on my mortal life." The criminal begged, "I will become your tool and your vessel. He who answers prayers, my soul and mortal shell are yours to command. Tell me what I am to do."

It was then, when he was pacified in his pleads to any deity that cared, that the orderlies came in to give him another shot. Wanting nothing more then to sleep, the patient allowed them to deliver rest in a syringe.

As he slept, he dreamed of his ex-wife.

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Don't believe in red noise? Look it up!


	2. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes

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Now, Sophia Giamonna had left the poor gangster for the greener pastures of the Caribineiri and Michelo's sister (that didn't stop her from running a small, very effective, underground operation herself). So redheaded ex-husband was naturally able to say, "I've been left for another woman" in his quests for the company of a woman. She was a fair woman, blonde with honey colored eyes. She didn't look entirely Italian, so despite her prime family heritage, she'd been saddled with the black-sheep son of a nightmarish gangster.

Michelo hadn't tried very hard to keep her anyway.

For four weeks, he hadn't gotten a single visitor. He knew that his gang was probably busy fighting a war to keep their territory. And it was a blessing not to receive contact from his family; he was glad to be merely ignored as punishment rather then kidnapping and torture. Someone, probably his sister, had sent clothes, but no notes attached. He was allowed to wear his own clothes here.

_"One by one, we march on in,_

_the hell of battle now begins,_

_tomorrow morn' we do it again._

_Does anyone really care?_

_I love old wartime cadences, don't you? The only thing Americans were ever good at. Defreakify soon, _

_Sincerely yours,_

_Lete."_

The ex-soldier had never been terribly eloquent, but short notes were bad. Michelo racked his brains to decipher a meaning from Gulf War II cadences, but his mind was a liquid in his head. Chips of reason and thoughts drifted within, but as the madman got further and further from the carefully constructed patterns and chemicals that buttressed his failing psyche, something as important as finding carefully planted meaning in his lieutenant's message was little better then impossible.

Even on his good days,the gangster had his minor hallucinations. The smell of his ex-wife's (goddamn her!) hair in the riot gas; the sound of his dead brother's voice from the bang of a gun; The hard press of his father's hand on his back when he tried to sleep.

And then there was the insinuating jaundice stare of the very sentient (in Michelo's mind) Neros Gundam.

He was mostly aware of fact and fiction and when his senses were just fucking with him with few exceptions, but now they were getting worse. He'd fall asleep and wake up drowning in the Tiber, then see Lete's small, sure hands grab at him from the surface of the water. Only when his face broke the surface, he'd be in the plush room again, gasping for air as if he'd really been drowning as the sensation of water faded. Sometimes, he'd relieve the fatigue of battle, feel his feet hit the cement as he leaped out of a truck, guns blazing. The heat and heaviness of old ballistic armor plates actually caused him to sweat in real-time, his fingers trembled with real lactic acid buildup as if he really were gripping an automatic rifle, trying like hell to shoot a driver before he could turn and unleash a wall of lead on Michelo and all his friends.

And then there was the sweetness of an orange orchid, the blend of tart and sweet, poignant and blood-red on his tongue. The warm weight of his older brother on his back was assuring as they leaned against each other, while he pretended to be a vampire as the red juices ran down his chin. They both shared their father's prominent canine teeth.

When Michelo awoke from something like that, he could almost cry.

In between fits of insanity, the hours of monotony were so frustrating, he'd lose his temper and try to destroy the beige madness, kick it in the teeth and break free. And he never could, no matter how strong he was. Without the fits of rage, Michelo would probably had been taken to a normal cell. But rage he did. And he'd do it hours on end. Just scream and yell and kick at the walls. The kicking was the worst part. The entire floor would quiver when his feet touched. Nobody was brave enough to sedate him, but he usually worked himself into exhaustion, so they would sedate him after the fact to prevent another rage.

This institute was a waste of time; little better then a holding cell until Neo Italian government officials came to clean up the mess that was Michelo Chariot. Most doctors would give him a try, only to want reassignment after only one or two sessions. To most, he was considered a hopeless case. His often violent reactions to his nightmares made observation too dangerous. They had to stop when he'd kicked right through the bullet-proof glass that was supposed to protect the doctors from the violently insane. Then they forgot that CS Riot Control agent worked both ways, so desperate were they to stop this terrible berserker.

Depending on who you asked, CS gas was either great white hell, or the best sinus medicine known to man.

Michelo himself whined softly though clenched teeth, now deceptively docile. He'd looked like he'd been crying his eyes out, but that was the effect CS gas usually had on people. He snorted, producing a cord of snot that managed to touch the floor while still being attached to his face. And there it stayed, white and bubbling with the same consistency as rubber cement, until Michelo wiped it away. Then it stuck to his hand, still stuck to the carpet.

"See this, doctor? That's sick. Look what you did to me."

His doctor was, in Michelo's eyes, a wicked man. After all, he put a face to the misery the redhead was in.

"Look what you did to me." The doctor's nose was broken.

Michelo shrugged and flapped his hand until the goo broke off with an almost audible snap and slipped to the floor where it coagulated.

"How are you feeling, Michelo?"

"I want a stiff drink. And a cigar." Michelo resisted the urge to wipe his teary eyes, lest he rub whatever CS particles on his hands into his eyes and restart the misery. CS loved water.

The doctor smiled, "You know how bad those things are?"

"You know how much I care?"

The doctor shrugged, "Tell me about what you see when you have these visions."

Michelo grinned wickedly, "I dream about rape and murder and arson and burning. And I cannibalize infants and I worship Satan. And it was all because of horrid abuses suffered during childhood. Please take pity on me."

"Satanic Ritual Abuse For The Win. Sarcasm isn't going to help me help you." Ironically, his voice was monotone.

"I've told you what helps me."

"Self-medication is common among the ill. We have much more effecti-" "Fuck you and fuck your fucking chemical straitjacket!" Michelo threw the sofa before the doctor had realized he'd stood up.

The doctor left the hospital in an ambulance.

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Meanwhile, In Neo Hong Kong, Wong Yun Fat thumbed through reports of disqualified gundam fighters. There were only a very few, and most of them were horribly weak or had horribly weak gundams. But the first one to be taken down caught him by surprise.

Now, Neo Italy had the bad enough luck to never finish in the top half of the gundam fight since they won it in 27, but finishing dead last wasn't like them either. Most attributed it to a curse, but Wong didn't believe in such rubbish.

Their fighter's profile was impressive. There was very little personal information, the fighter was in the witness protection program, but the biometrics were outstanding. For someone that had finished dead last in the gundam fight, he was in the top twenty in terms of a matrix of fighting attributes, including fighting prowess, physical fitness, and, of course, aggression.

There was a very poor picture of the fighter, a cross between half-cocked and half to the floor. His red bangs covered enough and the angle was poor enough to confuse even the most advanced facial recognition software. The retinal data was plain missing, and the fingerprints were intentionally poor, ghostly things. If Michelo wasn't who he said he was, it would be very hard to find out who he really was.

"Master, I want you to try this one. He seems…interesting."

The former King of Hearts stepped forward and observed the data with disdain, "The criminally insane usually are."

"But that's okay, I'm equal opportunity. Neo Italy has plenty of information they don't want to tell us."

"It was unlucky of him to have my pupil as his first opponent. I'll see what I can do."

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Figuring out that isolation never really helped the mentally ill, Michelo was given access to the day room to interact with the other patients. Later, Michelo would be unable to remember exactly what that day room looked like, only that he was playing checkers the entire hour of his life he spent in there.

Michelo was losing to a guy that thought aliens were trying to control his thoughts.

Said man had a tinfoil hat to block their reception.

"K-k-k-king me!!"

Michelo grumbled and turned the black piece over. Then he jumped a piece, causing the tinfoil man to jump three of his in one turn.

"You're a cheap bastard!" Michelo accused, pointing. Tinfoil man laughed, which enraged Michelo to the point of flipping the table with a swipe of his hand. He stormed out of the day room, never to return.

The orderlies, wary of the fact that he was well out of their league and unwilling to gas an entire floor of well-behaved patients, let him leave.

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The institution grounds were rolling hills of grass, dotted with wildflowers and lined with sunflowers cared for lovingly by patients who found solace in the peaceful art of gardening. Michelo trampled those plants and more as he walked to the main gate.

With his back against the wrought iron, he looked to the expanse of endless grass, then the institution itself. Michelo had more freedom in prison. He pulled the collar of his jacket up to shield his ears but refused to shiver. The Italian stared past the stone walls to the mountains, trying to use them to figure out where he was.

Sensitive ears picked up the nightmarish sound of a gundam falling through the air. The shock wave of its massive bulk hitting the ground knocked Michelo into the fence, temporarily paralyzing him and he landed on his hands and knees, bowing to the gundam. The evil creature was sinister looking and clawed. The pilot was famous. A purple martial artist uniform, long, silver braid, and a thick mustache. It was the Undefeated of the East, Former King of Hearts, twelfth gundam fight winner, Master Asia. He pointed to the astonished man.

"Michelo Chariot, right?"

_"Si."_

"C'mon kid, I'm bustin' you outta here.Wong sent me. Say hello to my Master Gundam."

"Hello to my Master Gundam."

Michelo's faith was born anew, _someone _out there still answered prayers. Without delay, the Italian seated himself on the palm of the gundam and the two were off.

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Riding on Master Gundam's hand, Michelo tried to think nicer thoughts, or at least recall better memories, but all he could think was how much of a sellout he'd been. Belchino was wrong, there was nothing honorable in becoming Gundam Fighter. Then again, there was nothing honorable in being Michelo Chariot. In fact, if any family in Neo Italy found out who had single-handedly cut their numbers in half, there would be nowhere in the human-controlled space that he could hide in.

There was a roar off in the distance; Michelo's life in military academies trained his ears to detect when mobile suits were launched. He looked to the Master Gundam's head, yelling to the wind and gundam machinery, "They're sending the cavalry!" and hoped that the old Master could read lips.

To keep dangerous patients from escaping, the hospital had outdated Neo Italy mobile suits that the government had auctioned off to afford their newer models. Just Benelli Novas, named after an Italian shotgun. On their backs were large anti-MS assault rifles that pivoted around a fixed fulcrum on the back. They were petite and sleek, painted black, with large feet and arms that housed missiles, or net guns in this case. These Benellis' shoulders were painted white, and the insignia of the military medical services for Neo Italy, An 'A' covering an "S" in a circle with narrow, gold wings. On the other side, was the crowned gold stork of the rescue units. They also had funky cool Roman helmets.

Master Asia didn't have to read lips to know what Michelo was saying, he heard it too; he knew that the hospital would be looking for their patient and the dark gundam that let him out. Master Asia didn't know the mountains as well as the Benelli pilots and it wasn't long before a couple of them showed up to stop Master Asia.

_"Fermata! Consegnere Michelo Chariot, o useremo forza!" _warned one of the pilots.

"What did he say?" Master asked.

"He said to turn me in or he'll kick our asses." Michelo called.

"Hm..we'll see who's beating who..." Master Asia said, throwing Michelo into the air. The shocked escapee let out a long, loud string of Italian, English, and even Japanese swearwords.

The Master Gundam destroyed the two Mobile suits by wrapping his beam cloth around the guns and heads of the Benelli's and pulled. The cloth tore the Benelli'she weapons and heads clean off. He reached over and caught the riled Italian. Michelo gasped for air, hand over his heart, head down. This position made him look quite feminine.

"Come now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Master scoffed.

"No, but you could have at least told me what you were going to do before you chucked me into the air. Damn near had a heart attack!"

Master Asia continued to flee the mountains.

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Night fell somewhere outside Milan, Neo Italy. An old martial arts sensai and a escaped mental patient sat before a campfire. The Master Gundam stood silent watch, and the campfire cracked merrily under a pot of coffee.

"Tell me about yourself, Michelo." Master said, sipping black coffee.

"I was going to ask you that, Master." Michelo safely assumed that Master Asia knew a lot more about him then vice versa.

"You first."

"Well..." Michelo said, putting down his coffee. His eyes were fixed on the fire, its light accented his facial features and made him look like a corpse, the light dancing in eerily in his eyes, "I was a mob boss, until I was dethroned by Domon Kasshu; an apprentice to you, if I'm not mistaken. Other then that, I'm just a cocky punk from Earth."

"I see. And you no doubt seek vengeance against my pupil?"

Michelo was unsure as to what to say to that...he did want revenge, but Master would no doubt abhor the idea of helping out someone who was so hell bound to kill his prodigy.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." Master Asia said.

Michelo peered at the elder man across from him over his coffee mug, wondering what he was hiding. But the geezer's face was set in a meditative pose, eyes closed, face relaxed. Michelo could get no hint out of this man; he could defiantly not trust him. The Italian decided to regard the man with suspicion, going along with the man's game.

He did rescue you, right? Michelo asked himself. It was not if he had too much of a choice. He was an escapee and the hospital would turn Neo Italy upside down looking for him. It also did not seem likely that a man would go to the trouble of helping a person escape just to kill them.

"Tell me...Master." Michelo ventured again, "You said Wong sent you, what is his interest with me?"

"You're a powerful fighter..."

Michelo scoffed, "Not nearly powerful enough. First casualty of the gundam fight...Mussolini's gonna freak when he finds out about this."

"Well, we have a cure for that..."

"And what would that be?" Before Michelo could stop him, Master struck him squarely on the forehead with his belt, knocking him unconscious. The near boiling coffee spilled to the ground and spread across the dirt like a black infection, soaking the back of its owner's arm in itself.

Master Asia picked the man up easily, "You're far too trusting, Michelo Chariot. Had you known my intentions, you wouldn't have been anywhere near my fist."

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When Michelo awoke, he was in a bed, without his jacket or shirt. Oddly enough, he was under the covers, but still had his boots and gloves with him. It seemed as though the person was too impatient with the dismantling of his boots, and didn't even bother to contend himself with the gloves. The brain abhorred nothingness, so the darkness crawled and swarmed before his eyes and the redhead feared blindness. He felt around, feeling a motel-bed. With his feet, he found the edge and managed to find the ground too. He stood up and walked slowly to a wall. Groping blindly, he found curtains and pulled them open.

The moon was so full Michelo was almost drowning in its light. Silver filled his vision and sparkled in his eyes, causing Michelo to turn away to the black of the room. When his eyes adjusted, he looked out. The scenery outside looked post-apocalyptic, with ruined buildings jutting out, puncturing the starry night sky. Stars? In a city, the lights would mask any stars. Where were all all the people? He scrambled for a light switch, and didn't find one.

Now he was really worried. He had no idea where he was, and the already, his mind was concocting the worst possible scenario. He was in the possession of not the Chariot Family, he was Don there, but its parent organization, the Liguori Family. He feared that the former King of Hearts had been paid to turn him in. The best he could hope for in that case would be for an honorable death. The worst...he didn't even want to THINK of the worst. He'd end up like Giovanni Ugolino. That poor bastard's memory haunted all men initiated into the honored society. Rumors floated around Neo Italy like ghosts.

Someone opened the door, and Michelo readied himself to go out with pure defiance. In the event that he was taken down, he would bite off his tongue and bleed to death.

"Welcome to my playground, Michelo."

Michelo spun around on his heels, "Yes, Satan?"

Wong chuckled, "I'm not the Devil, Michelo. I'm the man that controls the Devil."

"Who are you and where am I?"

"I'm surprised you didn't recognize my voice." Wong said silkily, "It's me, Wong Yunfat."

The ultimate authority himself.

"And what do you want with me?" Michelo asked in a low voice, grouping for a knife or handgun that wasn't there.

Wong smiled at Michelo's discomfort, "I'm going to have you reinstated into the Gundam fight."

That raised an eyebrow, "Under what conditions?'

"That the fight was an invalid one; because Neo Japan technically invaded Neo Italy, it was an act of war. And as a gundam fighter, you had every right to defend your nation. Therefore, it was not a gundam fight match so much as a skirmish between Neo Italy and Neo Japan. The Laws of War and the Gundam Fight Regulations govern two very different conditions."

Complete and total bullshit if Michelo had ever heard it. But whatever Wong said as long as he was ruler of the colonies was gospel. Nobody would like it, but nobody would say anything ether. Not even to each other.

"And what do you get from all of this?"

"You. Come with me, I'd like to show you something."

Michelo slipped on the now torn shirt he'd worn the night of the gundam fight's beginning, when the beginning of the end of Michelo Chariot fell to Rome just a month and a half ago. The madman followed Wong into the light. This place was trashed, carpet torn, floorboards missing, light buzzing and dying. The mossy-haired man looked terribly out of place. Michelo looked right at home.

The building had obviously collapsed at one point; Michelo felt them descending deep underground. The light dimmed and out of his coat, Wong produced one of those lights that doubled as maces; Michelo couldn't remember what they were called, just that they hurt when your head was bludgeoned with one. Going deeper still into the ruins of a business building, Michelo noticed the sheer number of rats here. He was used to seeing rats back home, but he couldn't help but he creeped by these things..something was not right about them...Michelo could hear their squeaks before they were caught in the rays of Wong's flashlight. At first, they moved too fast for even Michelo to see, but as his brain found patterns to their movements, he caught flashing glimpses of them. Their bodies gleamed in the light like metal and their red eyes were glowing with danger.

"What's up with those rats?" Eyes furrowed, the Italian searched for the trick.

"I'll show you soon enough." That arrogant smile never left Wong's face.

The floor died away to rubble-strewn dirt. The redhead followed Wong through the cataclysmic ruins, going deeper and deeper, until Michelo felt the cold that came from being underground. The only light in this nightmarish place was Wong's tiny flashlight. His migraine wasn't getting any better, and looking up at the ceiling, couldn't help but think of the thousands of tons of cement and steel, barley supported, hanging above their heads. It wouldn't take much to collapse the building. Being crushed would be a mercy compared to slowly dying in the stone coffin this building could make...

They came to a plain metal door that Michelo might have overlooked had he been here alone. Though down here, alone, Michelo doubted he'd stay sane enough to look for a door.

"This, Michelo Chariot is the ultimate machine to match the power of God; the Devil Gundam!" Wong said, triumphantly, opening the steel door.The wall gave way to a underground cavern of insane proportions.

But that wasn't what was interesting about it.

Devil Gundam. When Michelo saw it, he couldn't have picked a better name for such a thing. It was huge, a cavernous monster. It emitted a hellish fiery glow and seemed like the Abyss of Hell, right out of the Divine Comedy.

_"Cane' Dio..." _Michelo gasped, his blood turning into ice water. He brought his hands to his face to cover the look of utter shock.

It was such a terrible sight, Michelo could have sworn it hurt him physically and he instinctively snapped his head away and shut his eyes tightly but couldn't help but look again. He stared directly into the eyes of that evil thing. Wong watched Michelo's already beady eyes grow wide. He watched the pupils shrink until they were pinpricks, then disappear completely, leaving only dead, empty wooden irises. Any tension that wasn't keeping Michelo standing straight relaxed completely, and his face was as blank and white as a refrigerator door.

As fascinated as he was horrified, Michelo stepped toward this monster of a gundam. This titan of a Gundam. It seemed to be looking right at him. Through a haze of metallic colors, Michelo walked past Wong as if in a trance. Where he would normally stumble slightly on the loose patches of gravel, there was only a perfect, steady balance. His bangs didn't so much as dip as the body walked calmly over roughly hewn rock, the feet judged subtle elevation change and the knees compensated. He was gliding.

He came to the very end of the ledge he was standing on and it was only the sound of his feet brushing rocks down the face of the cliff that kept him from completely stepping over to his death. He stepped back, fearful of what he might have done had he not come to his senses.

He shook his head to clear it and his eyes returned. The colors sparkled and danced in his vision, then faded. Michelo rubbed his temples to get the stuffing out of his head. Then he looked around, keenly aware of that dangerous temptation front and center. The cavern was bathed in hellish light, and Michelo forced himself to avoid the eyes no matter how strong the urge was to look. All around him were ugly brown mobile suits that stared at the monstrosity as if in worship.

"_Look at me."_ A fiery whisper in his ear demanded. Michelo shut his eyes tight and turned his head away. His heart pounded in terror, but he was drawn irresistibly to the voice. Moth to a flame. Sinner to Satan. He was directly ahead of it, the mechanical, cold eyes stared him directly in the face, boring into his skull, reading his every thought. The headache he'd had in the room was pleasant compared to the hellfire agony he was enduring now.The scarlet haired man felt his knees quiver and for the first time in almost ten years he was actually experiencing paralyzing, cold fear. He was completely struck dumb.

"_LOOK AT ME."_

Michelo's neck turned and his eyes opened wide. The sight took his breath away and he stared directly into its eyes. His pupils shrank away and his eyes were wooden again.

His legs gave out and he fell to the ground as if in prayer, unflinching as his knees slammed into sharply cut rock. His eyes never broke from the monster's.

_"Michelo...your revenge...what will you do for it?" _He couldn't talk, couldn't even scream. Cold sweat beaded down his face. The voice send new spasms of pain coursing through the madman's body. He covered his arms to keep warm, because despite the heat from the fires below, it was unbearably cold. His body lost the ability to maintain any warmth. His fingers dug into his skin, releasing blood that flowed freely down his arms. Michelo didn't feel the harm he was inflicting on himself, his head was too preoccupied with being too fucking scared to think.

"Michelo Chariot, are you trembling?" Wong asked himself.

_"You asked, and now you shall receive." _The voice hissed_, "He who cares most of this decaying Earth..."_

It was true, he did say that, but he didn't expect this to be the answer to his prayer. The idea of the Devil being the one to answer prayers seemed abhorrent to nature.

Michelo's hands trembled with fear, other than that, he was still.

It reached deeper into his head; the white fire in his head became an iron hand squeezing his brain, squeezing out thoughts and memories.

And another squeezed his ribcage, then pulled it open, trying to operate his lungs. Michelo's own rhythm was just off enough to make it agonizingly painful. The ground rolled and waved, swirling before him as oxygen failed to reach his brain and his blood darkened. And yet, it felt as though the most important thing Michelo could ever do was to resist, to go against the flow of IT. So he fought, breathed against the rhythm. Their wills canceled and Michelo found his lungs paralyzed, his heart making knife-like, jarring movements to pump thickening blood. A black shadow loomed over his mind, something like impending doom.

There were white sparkles dancing and the world was spinning.

_"We'll see each other again."_ it promised, and as it crawled out of his mind, the world lost focus and the last thing the cardinal haired man saw before succumbing to the gundarium tyrant's will and collapsed into overwhelming darkness was Wong's amused face.

Michelo's chin tilted toward the ceiling, his arms relaxed-having been liberated from the whims of his mind-, his eyes rolled back in his skull, and before he could give himself a concussion, leaned back to rest against Wong's crouched body. Without a will to resist, the redhead's body gladly gave its rhythm to the Devil Gundam. His lungs synchronized and his heart fluttered to get in step. Consciousness might have returned, only the Devil Gundam hadn't willed it. What little color Michelo had returned.

It returned to the madman's shattered psyche, tasting carefully, sifting through compiled memories. Brains could be likened to computers. In the middle of the twentieth century, research gave proof that brain's functional structures are continually modified to generate and maintain memories. Electrical signals delivered to certain brain areas had long-lasting effects on connections among nerve cells. Unfortunately, the brain, albeit a very keen processor, wasn't very discriminating and it had no 'spam filter' for imaginary, modified, or coerced memories.

Everything Michelo could remember, like movie plots, books, rumors, dreams, and false perceptions were stored, like every other human, right beside memories of his tenth birthday, the first time his heart was ever broken, and his first confirmed kill. And it was difficult to distinguish real from fake.

Of course, it never really had to completely fake memories to make a monster out of this human. The transformation from man to beast had already been done, when he was a young boy. Soft clay to be molded by the hands of society and culture into a hardened, adult shape. The human was a dream, a cell of humanity turned into cancer, eating away at what it could.

It was very careful to ensure isolation from things the human sincerely cared about; evil as he was, Michelo did indeed reserve special others in the limited chambers of his heart. A snap of electricity here and there subtly rearranged neurons to associate ugly emotions to things strong enough to keep the human away from anywhere his associates might be. It stimulated production of adrenaline, a key factor in creating strong associations, to make an evil memory stronger then a good one, a memory to make his self-perception an negative one instead of a positive one.

A poor, fame-hungry psychotherapist couldn't do what the Devil Gundam could with a little time. Even as it couldn't truly talk to the human at the same level as another human, he'd do with just being unable to forget every evil he'd ever done or been victim to.

Michelo lay as if dead.

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Since Wong was physically unable to carry a full-grown man any length of distance, he instead had the purple-clad martial artist pick up the fallen man.

"I don't suppose you want to encapsulate him?" Master Asia asked.

"No. Michelo Chariot has a very distinct purpose for which we'll have better use for him if we wait for a later time to infect him." Wong said, chewing on a stick of pocky,"DG cell recipients have a notoriously short life span."

"So, what do you want to do? I personally think we can do much better then this...thug."

"I don't think we can, Master. Any skill he lacks as a fighter can be easily compensated for. This man will easily be brought to our point of view. You watch, I'll have him willing to do whatever you say. Even kill."

Master's eyes narrowed, but he kept any thoughts to himself, "Where do you want him, then?" Then his glare became intense as he looked at the avian youth in his arms.

"Wong, he's not breathing." he said a matter-of-factly with a touch of urgency to his voice.

"What?" Wong demanded. It was true. Michelo Chariot's chest did not expand or contract, something that accompanied respiration. Master set the fallen man quickly but gently, laying him out straight like a corpse. Then he pressed two fingers against his neck.

"He's gone into cardiac arrest."

"Impossible!"

Master Asia had nothing to say to the comment, nor did he have the mouth to do it, as he administered CPR.

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As circulation to the brain was nonexistent, Michelo received hallucinations. They say that the bright white light that accompanies the brink of death is the light to the other world. Michelo preferred to think of it as the results of chemical reactions that take place as the brain shut down. It was not that he didn't want to believe in an afterlife, rather, he really did, it was just that after so many brushes with death, he didn't like the idea of divine retribution. Unlike most Catholics, he didn't like the idea of God being that close and his life being this far from the Christian ideal.

He saw himself on a stone peak bathed in red light, Master Asia administering CPR; Wong was little more then a startled bystander. He heard them speaking Chinese, a language the cardinal-haired man was not familiar with. As the seconds of non-life passed, he saw a figure that reminded him of a ninja, except with a Germanic aspect to him. He was hiding out, somewhere in the stone crevices and Michelo normally would have spotted him, except with the terrifying sight he had come in contact with.

_A flash of white._

Suddenly, he wasn't in a satanic cavern with a body shutting down permanently, he was walking with his twenty-year-old brother, Antonio. Both carried trumpets. Antonio looked much like a modern Michelo, with a beaky nose and cadaverous skin tone, but his eyes were yellow and his hair was short and spiky and highlighted blue and black. He had a short black goatee and small wire glasses. His primary clothing choice was gray and he accented it with neon. Multicolored reflector tape all over his pants and a orange radiation symbol on his shirt.

Michelo was fifteen and his black hair was just now starting to grow back from military academy. He walked slowly in annoyance as his older brother skipped circles around him, singing.

"Who do birds sing so gay? And why they await the break of day? Why do they fall in love? Why does the rain fall from above? Why do fools fall in love? Why do they fall in love?"

It was a stupid song, one that had been remade by at least four hundred artists in the past three centuries.

"I hate that song." Michelo said.

"Of course you hate it." Antonio said touching Michelo's nose and leaning in close, "You wouldn't know a damn thing about love. You're completely heartless."

_A flash of white._

Then he was holding the cooling, sanguined body of his falling brother. He wasn't dead yet, but he would be in three days without ever waking up. His jaw was shattered, his glasses had fallen to some obscure corner, bullet wounds riddled his chest and arms. One could actually see quivering arteries burning with pain in the exposed air. One of his saffron eyes was sealed shut with congealed blood.

"-face it, Michelo, this is the end. Look at my chest, better yet, look through it." He cackled, then coughed, spitting blood on Michelo's chest.

_A flash of white._

He was an adult, blue jeans, long red hair, and the title of 'Don' to his name again. He was walking down a colorless hall up on the Neo Italian colony, at the Neo Italia Istituto di Ingegneria Meccanica. He had arranged with the top brass who arranged with Neo Hong Kong for him to receive his gundam early in order to train with it under normal gravity and Earth scenarios. Everyone knew there was another reason for it, but nobody said anything. He was in a good mood again, just had a good cherry slushie. He walked down the hall and a short Neo Italian official struggled to keep up with Michelo's considerable stride.

"All right, signore Chariot, before you go, we'd like to introduce you to your flight crew. Now, I know it's a small one, just two people, but Neo Japan's only got one person on their crew!"

They reached the end of the austere hallway and came to a transparent orange door that swished open. Sitting in the small waiting room was a man and a woman, both about his age. The first was a gaunt man with serpentine eyes and a black business suit. The other was a Caribineiri woman in her dress black uniform.

"Meet Romano Christiani and Lt. Sophia Giamonna."

_A flash of light._

The thought of impending doom. For years, Michelo really hadn't really stopped and thought about death. And though he made many references to it, never really thought about an afterlife. Well, he was thinking of one now. Bright green warnings, red lights flashing, the circuits overloading one by one as the Shining Gundam's energy coursed through the wires of the Neros Gundam, frying circuit after circuit, sensitive interments on the cockpit snapped and exploded without warning, sending noxious,tangerine fumes into the cockpit along with the dangerous smell of chemicals, burning rubber, and almonds.

Where there's smoke, there's fire.

Michelo wondered what was going to get him at this rate, explosive cockpit fire or poison from the bowels of his own gundam.

Glass shattered around him, causing the Italian to instinctively protect his eyes. The pockets of hot air from the cockpit malfunctions combined with the air being supplied from the outside via vents and swirled his carmine hair around like the banner of an unholy army.

The temperature of the cockpit soared as Michelo looked terrified at the rival gundam. Then, as if by strange magic, the jewel colored readouts and graphs before him met in the center and morphed into a hologram of a torn photograph, the one that Andre had seen.

Michelo's mind had completely shut down at this point and he was acting purely by instinct. He couldn't even maintain proper Cosa Nostra dignity that befitted a man of his stature as this Neo Japanese martial artist demanded he supply him with answers as to the whereabouts of the man in the photo. The energy of the Japanese gundam acted like an artificial sun as Michelo's hair was purged of most of its color and his skin darkened by a few shades.

And before Michelo knew it, it was all over.

He landed on his back in time with his gundam, against the gunmetal ring that was the controls for the gundam as the Neros Gundam's body slowly cooled and died. He didn't know how long he lay there, feeling about as much as his gundam did at the moment.

"At least you didn't lose your life; I spared you, Michelo Chariot."


	3. Pink Elephants on Parade

_I hope I don't have to up the rating for this..._

Pink Elephants on Parade

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Antonio looked down at his brother through a haze of silver smoke. Cruel canines were exposed in a bemused smile while gold stone eyes glittered behind granny glasses. The doctor put a hand on his hip and took a sip of smoke from his cigarillo.

At his feet, Michelo hugged himself, sweating profusely. His skin was ashen white, lips and fingertips tinging purple. He curled into himself like a child and spoke in a soft voice, "You...you said it wouldn't hurt!"

Michelo lay on the floor, appreciating the coolness at the time, now wishing he had a thick woolen blanket. He shuddered as pain raced through his nerves. Michelo felt a caught fish, his skin was freezing, unable to maintain body heat, and he felt like he was drowning. The IV Michelo had ripped from his body dangled drained above him and dark blood flowed freely between his trembling fingertips. The pain tainted his blood and delivered itself to every cell of his body. Genetically high-jacked viruses could cure as well as they could kill. Tony was trying to see if he'd altered the right genes in his little brother to recreate with science the ancient techniques that Master Asia had used to reinvent the gundam fight. Right now it just looked like he was killing him.

Well, he could always try again on his other brother next.

"Oh, Micky..." Tony chuckled faintly, volume rising as he watched his brother suffer, "I lied."

Michelo lifted his eyes slowly, causing Tony to shake his head; he was laughing, "I lied!"

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He woke with a start.

He was in his room again, curtains drawn, blocking in the light. His head ached. Moaning softly, he rubbed his forehead. He was having quite a few headaches recently. His shirt was off, giving him a nostalgic feeling.

"Boss?" Lete peeked his head in carefully, lest his boss try using it as target practice with whatever his hands could grab off a nightstand; he wanted to be a smaller target. The lieutenant looked worried.

"Mngh, Lete..." Michelo sat up, rubbing his eyes, "What I'd get up to last night?"

He motioned him in and Lete shut the huge double-door silently. Quiet as a mouse, Lete was beside his Boss's bed, feet shoulder-width apart, hands joined behind his back, chin level, back painfully (it had betrayed him years ago) straight, with complete attention to his boss's orders. The only thing that moved were Lete's tired gray eyes that looked to the left, recalling a memory.

"Sir..." Lete narrowed his eyes, "You got in that firefight, remember?" Without moving a thing except the necessary muscles, he pushed a glass of water toward his Boss's groping hand. Michelo gulped it down gratefully, then finally looked at his _Consigliere_.

"You don't have to do that. Doesn't it hurt?"

Lete shook his head and relaxed, Michelo could hear the vertebrae in Lete's back shift and crack as he let the muscles relax. The weight of his head and shoulder blades were too much for his splintering spine, giving the mauve-haired gangster a distinct slump.

"Can't help it, Boss." Michelo raised an eyebrow, "I saw a chiropractor, sir, honest. Anyway, you got in that bar fight with those Christiani gangsters."

"Oh...right..." Those mirror-image identical twins..." How are we doing? I mean, war-wise?" That explained the pain and unusual dehydration.

Lete's lip twitched, "Well..." He braced for the impact of his boss's fiery temper, "Calcabrinca Team was all torn up this morning when one of Christiani's teams caught wind of the ambush. The attack basically failed because everyone dismounted from the vehicle and a Christiani set the damned thing on fire, causing the extra ammunition to light and..." Lete shook his head, "I told them better."

Michelo angrily clenched his jaw, "What are the losses?"

Lete looked heavenward for the answer, "Twenty out of the original fifty, Boss. Worst yet." He reminded. Muscle memory caused Lete to relax his knees and tuck his head as his Boss's fist sailed right over him. Any slower, and the redhead might have broken his lieutenant's nose.

"Get Draghinazzio Team and launch a counterstrike. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure it gets done."

"Yes, Boss. When do you need it done?"

"Now."

Lete nodded politely and backed away, "I'll tell Andre right away, sir."

Then he perked as he remembered something, "Boss!"

"What?!"

"You've got a letter from the Ministry of Defense." He pulled an official looking letter out of his jacket and stepped forward; holding it out.

Michelo snatched it and looked at the header

Classified

To: Gundam Fighter Chariot, Michelo Argento.

Upon opening it, there was another envelope; the classification changed to _"Secretissimo"_ and the name now read,

Liguori, Michelangelo Savio.

"Oh..."

It was a set of orders to the Neo Italy colony along with a single ticket. It told him to report to the Ministry of Defense no later then a week from the date of the letter. It completely changed Michelo's disposition. No longer was he angry, he was scared.

"...Shit..." Michelo looked out the window, lip trembling.

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There were some things that Lete didn't understand and didn't think he'd ever would. His boss was one of them. Unlike many gangsters in this day and age, Lete hadn't been born with the expectation of becoming a professional criminal. Quite the opposite, in fact. Being the right hand to a nut-case gangster and primary instrument in the creation of thirty percent of Rome's criminal problems hadn't been in his plans either.

The short man sat down in a small, uncomfortable chair in the hallway where his feet didn't touch the ground. He was thinking; trying to think like his boss to figure out how the hell he'd gotten here from Milan with no signs of outside help. Michelo didn't even seem to know; but blackouts with him weren't uncommon. But he'd never seen this before.

"Why the fuck doesn't anything make sense?!" Lete demanded of the empty hallway.

"Sir?" A pink-clad maid implored softly from a room she had been cleaning.

Lete waved her off and buried his chin in his fists. His elbows were propped on his knees and his thumbs supported his head. His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes focused on his over-sized knuckles. Michelo had been helped, he was sure of it. But who were his benefactors? It certainly wasn't any made men; he had no allies outside of his black brigade. And who had the philanthropy to help a disqualified gangster back to his hometown?

Michelo's memory in terms of events was getting fuzzier, Lete had worrisomely released, but how could such an important piece of information not stick? Lete hated gaps in the information more then anything.

Since he had been helped, who was it, and what did they expect in return? Like the NCO he had once been, Lete vowed to find out and make sure and verify and fix. He didn't resent this mission; he never did. It was his job, it was what he expected of himself.

Quietly as ever, he slid out of the chair and went to wake Andre.

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Michelo was homesick already.

There he was again, in the office of the Minister of Defense, AKA, Maria Liguori, who's other title was Michelo's older sister. And when they didn't get along, she never failed to point out that she was only his _half-sister_. The legitimate half.

She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and petite. She had olive skin, sultry brown eyes, and long glossy black hair that reached down to her thighs. Like her brother, she had long legs and almond-shaped eyes with thick eyelashes. Other then that, it was nearly impossible to tell they were related. She wore a long red overcoat over a short black dress. She had the voice of a little girl.

"What good did I ever see in you?" Maria asked. Michelo decided against speaking a word the entire time he was in that hateful, large office. The large mahogany desk stood out starkly from the walls of books and technology that the tiny woman was always poring over. He was slouched on a comfortable honey-colored couch that reminded him of the Institutes's plush. The carpet was even soft; as if he would take off his boots to feel it. As if anybody would.

"Well, today's your lucky day, little man." Maria picked up a report detailing the Neros Gundam's weapons system, "Prime Minister Wong's decided to reinstate you into the Gundam fight."

She looked up at him suspiciously. The older sibling searched her brother for any signs of sin that would get Wong to break three regulations just to reinstate some loser into the most decisive show in the universe. She could think of quite a few dirty deeds he'd be quite willing to do in order to fall into good graces and wondered how many of them he'd committed.

"So, what kind of favor did you pull to do that?" She narrowed her eyes and smiled wickedly, "You've no shame at all, do you?"

Michelo shrugged, "I remember meeting him somewhere...Where's all my memory gone?"

He was suddenly worried again, as if he had reason to suspect a poor memory for anything but. Odd, he'd never had a poor memory before. Not that she felt any little bit of sorrow for her brother's deteriorating mind. Actually, she found it quite funny that he was slowly going insane. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was a series of events, maybe it was all genetics. She was really curious sometimes.

Maria laughed, "My poor, insane brother..."

"Bitch!" His anger lashed like heat.

"Oh, you're so sensitive on that little matter. S'okay, Micky, on paper you're perfectly normal. Well, you were perfectly normal. The GFIC is asking for a review to see if you're mentally competent to pilot a gundam."

She was getting him angry and loved it.

"You're so goddamned petty." He folded his arms and looked away.

"I tell it like it is, Micky." She grinned, "Your gundam's in hanger eighteen. You know the way, don't you?"

"Isn't it illegal to bring a gundam to the colonies during the fight?" He turned his narrowed eyes at her.

"Don't worry about it. Hanger eighteen."

"And the crew?" Of all the gangsters he'd sold out, those were the two that could actually make him pay for it. They caused him heartburn with worry over the potential of their pain.

"Wong told me to dismiss them." Michelo sighed with relief.

"So how am I supposed to repair my gundam?" Surely he wasn't expected to do it on his own.

Maria shrugged, "Hell if I know. He said that you couldn't have a crew anymore, and he'd take care of everything. In fact..." She shuffled papers around her desk and pulled out an envelope. When the redhead took it, he could smell chocolate, "He said it was for your eyes only."

"Hanger eighteen." She repeated, pointing to the door, "Don't worry about it, Micky, I'll fudge the reports again...you'll be sane."

Michelo grabbed the doorknob when his sister said, "Don't make me regret it."

He left without saying goodbye; they had never been, and would never be, very close.

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Christiani was taller then Michelo, though they looked similar. They might have been half-brothers, but neither would admit to that. In fact, they were trying to kill each other. "Tripsy" Chistiani was the second-most powerful gangster in Rome, and he operated the traditional way; suits and ties and _omerta_. He loved the sub gun's rat-tat-tat and jazz music. But because he was too frail to handle the recoil of most modern firearms(he was secretly anorexic), he was also Europe's foremost kenjitsu master. Under that fedora was a curtain of chin-length greasy black hair streaked with purple, his favorite color.

"We've been orders to report to Neo Hong Kong for the Gundam fight. But not until then. And you must be unaccompanied." Christiani's voice was deep and melodious as he glared yellow hatred. His eyes were like a snake's, slitted and cruel. His front was a jazz lounge, and spent his non-criminal time as a musician and singer. Most of his band members made up the very core of his gang.

"Where's my ex-wife?" Wong had told Maria to dismiss the flight crew entirely...but Maria was far too careful for that.

The plum-clad gangster shrugged, "Who knows? Caribineiri do mostly what they want."

"Yeah, no shit..." Michelo rubbed his chest tentatively, feeling a memory, "How are you feeling?"

"After what happened in Milan? I've been feeling better, truth be told." His voice was echoing off the steel hanger's walls. The snaky man didn't seem to care too much about revealing information that was supposed to be secret. In fact, it was very likely he was trying to get Michelo caught, found out, and killed like the traitor he was. Though the Tiberina Society all depended on each other for protection from bigger and meaner mafia families, Tripsy was angry enough that overwhelming defeat at the hands of an older, angrier family didn't seem so bad if he could punish this young mob boss for what he'd done.

Michelo sneered, "Oh, sore about that?" It was obvious to Michelo that Neo Italy was playing the Roman mob families off each other in hopes they'd all kill each other before the fight's end. If a victory in the gundam fight wasn't likely, then the government would simply take the next best thing; three birds with one stone.

"Just a little. Settin' me up to get _picked up_ by some intelligence service with an explosives manual _you_ wrote."

"I knew it wouldn't lock you up forever...I just needed to distract you."

"Get rid of me, fucker. I never pegged you as an agent, but I shouldn't be surprised. So, how much did you get for selling out half of the gangsters in Neo Italy?"

Michelo's conscience was pricked for a moment and a moment only, his eyes were as narrow as a coin slot, "More money then even a godfather makes. And a gundam. And witness protection. Just for leveling the playing field. And you'd better not breathe a word of this to any soul or I'll kill you." He hadn't expected Tripsy to know that much. The government wouldn't have told him, but Tripsy Chistiani hadn't made it to where he was for being an idiot.

"You're a real devil, Ciariotto; a serious devil." The gaunt man was using an Italian pronunciation of the redhead's last name. Michelo answered to it just like he did the anglicized one.

"I spared you, didn't I?"

"Oh, did you?" the greasy-haired man dropped his jaw, making a loud crack and exposing serpentine fangs where his canines once were.

"You lived. Tony didn't. And tell your leg breakers to leave mine alone."

"What choice do I have with the Neros being operable again?" Chistiani shook his head and folded his arms, "I've set the coordinates to Anzio beach, to offset the Belchino's heartburn. See you in six months."

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Michelo never got used to zero gravity as the shuttle fell off the Neo Italian colony and Mother Earth reached out to grab it.

Michelo turned, arms folded, hair tied back, and looked up at the floor of the shuttle. For a second, he entertained the thought that he was upside down and a strong sense of vertigo took him; he gagged.

There is no up or down. He reminded himself and kept reminding himself until his nausea passed. He wasn't upside down, there was no longer such a thing.

He couldn't decide if he liked being weightless or hated it.

The letter had read, in English;

_"Signore Chariot;_

_I hope this letter finds you well, I had feared the worst after that scare in Shinjuku. You will be delighted to know we've changed bases since a rather disturbing development necessitated a change of scenery (you may become well acquainted with said development). We are now situated in the Guyana Highlands, still on Earth. I myself have returned to Neo Hong Kong, and will be awaiting you and your Neros Gundam sometime within the next six months. Don't lose your head; take your time, I don't need you until at least two months prior to the Finals._

_Best of luck, _

_(signed)_

_Wong Yun Fat." _

Clever to say the least. Wong knew a thing or two about subtlety and- what the fuck was he talking about? He'd never been to Shinjuku before.

Then a nightmare smacked him in the face. A gundam army laying waste to a huge city, its people, helpless, screaming and crying. Smoke filled the morning sky, turning it to night in an instant. Cement cracked and shattered like glass, crushing unlucky citizens. Green metal tongues lapped at these people, swallowing them whole into the dark earth. Entire sky scrapers collapsed.

Within hours, the remaining population to the city was under siege to an entire monster army. A devil army.

Michelo exhaled with an anguished cry. It was too terrible to look at and the Italian pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had been to Shinjuku before. And that's where the nightmare happened. But he couldn't remember a thing.

Then again, he could barely remember anything about his life!

His head was more geared toward skills and problem-solving, and memories were fuzzy at best, especially pleasant memories. Struggling, he tried to remember something about his childhood. Nothing.

A memory came close, something about his mother and father fighting, and it had ended in terrible violence. Then it was over.

He remembered having a good memory.

Rubbing his temples to ease his terrible headache, he returned to piloting the shuttle into Anzio Beach.

The Italian leaned back and appreciated the rumble and heat of entering the atmosphere. He definitely preferred the solid grasp of Mother Earth to the cold blackness of space. Michelo didn't even appreciate the decadent colonial culture. Though he didn't care for the sadness of Earth either, where gang leaders like himself terrorized the people, made them pay taxes to him exclusively. Then he would have his men do much of the work of the hyperextended police. Mob rule was more popular then any government wanted to acknowledge.

Michelo craved the cold black feel of his M16A2. Military weapon for a military gangster.

That was it! He had trained in a military school...where he'd been first gotten the attention of the Neo Italian officials who would one day make him gundam fighter.

The shuttle crashed into the sandy beach, turning a good deal of sand into glass.

As if he were something of legend himself, Lete, ever dedicated, stood on the pier a kilometer away. He narrowed his eyes to shield them from the light of the blast. The wind blew his tropical shirt taught against his skin and whipped his hair behind him. His hands never left his pockets.

Andre, meanwhile, was sitting cross legged, head down. He lifted his eyes to the arrival of his boss and sat up straight. With that posture, he was just as tall as his fellow lieutenant. When he stood up, Lete only came to his hip. He put his hands in his coat.

Cameron put one gangrene-colored jungle boot on the sand before he was followed by the others, who walked coolly to greet the new Neros Gundam.

At the edge of the swirling hot liquid glass, Michelo was waiting for them. He smiled as good natured as he ever could. He walked over and patted Cameron and Lete on the shoulders, "I'm in a party mood."

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Punk rocker as they were, Michelo did like to see his men dress in something nice to party in. And as usual, he was the last to be dressed. Mobsters had images to maintain and as a Don, Michelo had the highest grooming standard of them all.

Lete was already dressed in a dark plum suit, red shirt, and black tie because he was always the fastest to change. His fedora matched his hair. Despite being indoors, he wore it. He wore beetle black oxfords that had been hand polished into mirrors. Michelo correctly guessed that he'd taken the time to do it himself. There wasn't a servant on Michelo's roster that could shine shoes to Lete's unreasonable standard.

Andre's shoes were polished too, but not nearly to the same level as his smaller counterpart. Unlike Lete, Andre found little reason to spend what he had incorrect guessed as hours to shine shoes. He let a servant do it. His shaggy hair was pulled back into a shaggy ponytail. He was dressed in a dark chocolate suit, white shirt, and a black and cable-striped tie.

Cameron alone had the skin color to pull off a light colored suit, which he did marvelously. His suit was sharkskin, his shirt cyan, and his tie was black and plum striped.

The Don himself wore a black and red pinstripe suit to match his hair, a black shirt, and solid red tie. His fedora matched the suit and tie.

On Michelo's bed was his trademark jacket with the inside of it gutted out. On the bed was only the denim shell, with a silk insert. What made that jacket special, the armor, was missing.

"Armor check!" Michelo said suddenly and punched his three cohorts in the chest. None of them so much as backed away.

"We're not so foolish as to go outside without any armor on, boss. " Andre said, laughing. Michelo punched himself in the gut to show his men that he wasn't foolish either. He put his hat on, admiring himself in the mirror.

"Ladies, how do we look?"

Two servants, a blonde and a redhead, smiled softly. The blonde stepped over and straightened Andre's tie, "Marvelous as always, sir."

He had twelve lieutenants under him, but those three knew they were Michelo's favorites as they stepped out into the May twilight. Like bodyguards, Andre and Cameron walked behind the Don while Lete was only slightly behind and to his right.

"Hey, where are we goin', boss?" Lete looked up to him. Michelo grinned like a psycho, clichéd had it not been for the one smiling.

"The Pink Elephant."

"Christiani's joint?" Andre asked.

"Yeah. The Neros is back and I think we reminded him. And if the ex is there, let her girls know too.

Despite appearances, Michelo never did a thing superfluously.

The Pink Elephant, despite its speakeasy name, was quite the ritzy joint. It was a dark building with a classy cherry red door. The windows were mirrored, so one couldn't see what went on from the outside. A little knock knock opened the door to see the bouncer, dressed in classy black, to open the door. He recognized the quartet immediately and opened the door to let them in.

There was barely enough light to read with in that dark, bluesy place, sultry purples, jazzy blues, and killer red lights decorated this place. The couches are deep crimson and Michelo longed to sink into one while a girl rode him. He grinned sardonically. There'd be plenty of time for that later. The place was thick with smoke that smelled of opium and tobacco. Like the manager, the gaunt snake man himself, really cared for the drugs that were consumed in his place, but he didn't seem to care about them either. Several gold and glass hookahs were placed before several couches. Suited men and women smoked from them lazily; apparently there was more then tobacco in them. Perhaps that's where the perfume was coming from.

On the stage was a big band playing jazzy swing music. The band leader was Christiani, dressed in all purple and black. His voice was velvet. He stood out in his cool colors because the stage was bathed subtlely with stop sign red and taxi yellows. It had to be well over a hundred degrees onstage, but the bony man showed none of the heat. Not like his band mates, who were all sweating away in black suits.

"See ya, boys, I'm looking to see if they can spare some of that china white for me." Michelo removed his hat and went for the hookah with the prettiest women beside it. He was stopped by a petite honey-blonde.

"Oh shit!" Lete bit his fist. Sophia put her hands on her hips. She was dressed in a coal-black tuxedo, custom fit to her figure. Her golden hair was pulled into a high ponytail with a diamond bauble held in place with a silk ribbon. Those studded stilettos couldn't have cost less then a thousand euros. Her hips were canted and she looked angry.

"Honey bunny!" Michelo smiled, as if he were really glad to see her.

She scowled, "Micky. What the hell are you up to?"

"Well, I was going to meet up with Aunti Emma until you interrupted. Now, babe, I know you only care for me, but you gotta respect my right to see-" She slapped him across the face.

"No love lost for Mrs. Chariot." Michelo remarked, checking his lips for blood.

"It was Mrs. Ligouri, ass wipe. How'd you get out of the funny farm?"

Michelo shrugged, "Friends in high places?"

She shook her head, "Lete?"

Lete shrugged, "Dunno, Sophie. "

She gave a disgusted sound and stomped off.

Aside from the obvious two, Michelo couldn't recognize anybody else. Nobody important, anyway, there were a few personalities in the art world, but nobody too important.

It was Cameron who noticed the twins. Two mirror-image identical twins made of darkness. They were in Christiani's brood, of Neo American origin but Neo Cuban decent. They were the Corvi brothers, and aside from their skin, they were colorless. Sin black hair and suits, white shirts, black ties. Due to an odd mutation, their irises were blank white, giving them a permanent maniacal look. To soften this, they were mirrored sunglasses. It was near impossible to tell them apart, but they did in fact have their own personalities and names. The stronger, meaner of the two was X (Spanish; say Eh-keys) while, the weaker, gentler one was named Y (Spanish; say E-gray-ga). More then anything else, they hated being likened to other famous twins or the Blues Brothers. They stayed in the shadows, as was their practice, but their blank white eyes were fixed on Michelo, that was too many nights he'd been here and they suspected something.

They were craving a disaster.

What the other three loved most about Cameron on party nights was the fact that he was Muslim, and never took a drop of alcohol. So he could be counted on getting everybody back in one piece. He always carried pistols to ensure that feat.

A young female in a tux let out a long winded, winding wail on her trumpet from the stage. How she had the lung capacity for such playing was beyond physics. Lete smiled and walked over to the bar, ready to drink himself stupid and maybe pick up a few band-mates, followed by Andre. Cameron stayed with Michelo as he lit the hookah professionally.

The Latin-esque music did little for the carmine-haired gangster as he chatted it up with a few ladies in red. They all looked the same to him; their individual characteristics did little to distinguish them in his eyes.

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That night, Michelo had a dream.

He looked to the silver sky to see the pearly sun tucked neatly away. He felt the heat flashing off his armor. He was a gladiator with a heavy battle ax in his left hand and a shield in his right. Though his hands were ungloved, his gauntlets were lined with spikes.

He cast a glance around the arena before his eyes fell on the emperor. Silently, he asked, _Who's my opponent?_

The other door opened, and Michelo protected his chest with the shield and readied the ax.

The fighter was from a distant land that the Roman Empire would never see. The warrior was one that no gladiator would ever face.

Hailing from a much more decadent culture, Michelo's armor was sparse, both due to the asceticism of the human body and to offset the weight of heavy brass. The fighter was almost entirely clothed in metal, leather, and cloth. All that could be seen from the bronze mask were twin sweeps of black hair. The more ferrous-haired man bit his lip to contain his laughter.

The silent opponent drew his sword, a ridiculous curved thing.

Without warning, as was his custom, Michelo charged, his sandals slapping on the ground as he leaped into the air, guarding his body with the shield and tucking his legs under him. With a mighty swing, Michelo aimed to remove the foreigner's head with one blow.

A flash of silver sun and the gladiator found himself some distance away, on his feet mind, but still, blocked. With a quick glance, Michelo saw a long gash in his shield.

Leaping up, he charged again, throwing his shoulder behind the shield and into the fighter, who planted his feet and met Michelo's shoulder with his own. They held like that until Michelo swept his foot out to kick the man's feet out. His feet only scrapped dirt.

Strong legs kicked him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. A roll to his feet narrowly saved the redhead from a death stroke from that curved blade. Though it would never catch on in his own land, Michelo saw that the curve was what was making it so fast.

What was that the emperor had called this man? Sam...?

The gladiator was on the defensive again, blocking with everything he had and praying to Apollo that the shield wouldn't break. The shade was fading fast as the sun quickly overtook the battle. Taking a gash to the shoulder, Michelo spun around to roundhouse the fighter in the chest and bring him down.

Angry, Michelo decided against a quick gash to the head, instead, he began to stomp his opponent, causing roars of approval from the blood thirsty crowds. The sun hid behind the clouds again.

Then his feet met the dirt again.

The foreign fighter was up again, then blinding white pain blinded the gladiator as blood filled his vision.

Death by a thousand cuts, the foreigner sated the lust of the crowd by painting the ground with vicious red streaks. Finally, Michelo was on the ground; once loyal fans screamed for the _coup d'grace_.

Silently, the fighter sheathed his sword and left. Michelo slammed the back of his head on the ground; Disgraced and defeated, what could he do now? Michelo remembered what they were called as he stared into the bright, sunny sky.

_Samurai._

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Michelo was awake and cursing. The woman laying beside him stirred and turned, her opium hair splashed across expensive sheets. That Japanese gundam fighter shouldn't be effecting him this badly. Sure, Domon Kasshu had to be the worst person he'd ever met (And he'd met his and everyone else's share of bad people), but to invest so much energy on it?

Well...all things considered, he was obligated to do at least the same amount of damage to Domon in repayment to what was done to him. It was disgraceful and bad for business if he didn't. The rules of La Cosa Nostra were complex and harsh, to say the least. But there were several tenets that were as clear as commandments. Revenge was one of them; La Cosa Nostra was steeped in it.

"A wounded man shall say to his assailant; if I live, I will kill you. If I die, you are forgiven." Michelo quoted the rule he'd lived by since he was a child. If he were to have any peace, he'd have to fight Domon Kasshu and make him pay for in blood the trouble he'd caused. Almost regardless of his opinion in the matter.

That, and well, Domon was just too damned irritating to let live. Especially after all the damage he'd caused.

Michelo grinned; he'd decided his good deed for the year.


	4. Demon Speeding

_Okay..seems like my update was a little premature, so here is the second iteration of Chapter four. _

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Demon Speeding

Andre Palizollo, oddly enough, used to be a business/economics major that had set up shop in Rome to help people as a financial adviser. That may seem absurd until one considered the human factor; Andre himself. Because he hadn't been under a hundred pounds since he was six and he was poor, stereotype dictated that he grow to become a thug in some gang somewhere. Wanting to better himself and to break that stereotype of a big, dumb thug, Andre worked hard in the neglected Earthen school system and even found a way to get to collage. In his benevolence, he decided to return to his humble roots to help those like himself. Obviously, his business went bankrupt within a month, and he ended up fulfilling that big leg-breaker stereotype when he was offered a steady income in the Chariot Family. 

Still, he never forgot what he learned, and insisting that good information was money, he was always looking out for better and more effective ways of doing business. So Michelo never really had to worry about finances, having never been to collage himself. 

Of course, what Andre spent _most_ of his time doing was Michelo's violent gang work. His motorcycle was an illegal three wheeled Frankenstein of a chopper. Straddled between the forks of the bike itself was a 40mm grenade launcher. The butterfly-shaped trigger sat between the bike handles. This meant that he had to take one hand off the handlebars in order to operate the weapon. The grenade launcher didn't pivot, meaning he had to turn after firing lest he catch up to the grenade he fired. This discouraged irresponsible waste of the grenades themselves and prevented their usage in closed areas. 

The roar of his own chopper drowned out the quiet electric engine of the twin that was after him and everyone else in his team. Draghinazzio Team split into five ten man teams to find the Christiani gang members. Andre couldn't tell the twins apart, but there was one sniping from a roof, and another was on that black electric sports bike. It didn't take an idiot to know that the one on the bike was herding the Chariot family into the range of his brother's sniper scope. 

Andre turned to see a black rider with a steel pole in his braking hand. Black hair stuck out of the helmet. Andre still had no idea which twin it was. And nothing infuriated the twins more then someone not being able to tell them apart. 

Corvi let up on the gas to fall behind Andre, then caught up on the opposite side. He swung that steel pipe hard, catching Andre in the elbow. Hot lightning pain shot up his arm and he nearly let go of the handle. Had he been any weaker, that pipe would have broken his arm. Corvi tried again, this time he struck for the shoulder as if to knock it out of place. Didn't work, but it did hurt like a bitch. The larger man kicked at the sports bike's forks, causing the wheel to jerk and the bike to destabilize. Simultaneously keeping his bike under control, Corvi cracked that steel pipe down on Andre's leg, sending unbearable pain up his leg to the base of his spine. 

Finally, the smaller man managed to hit under the kneecap. It hurt so bad, Andre felt sick to his stomach. He snatched his leg back and Corvi pursued, using the pipe like a spike, jabbing it into the inner workings of the engine. Angry, the mossy-haired man slammed his entire bike into the smaller one. Corvi swore loudly as he tried to keep his bike under control and away from the buildings, giving Andre the chance to get away by turning. 

By the time he got his bike back under control, the slower chopper was gone. X swore again and fought the urge to spit. Growling with his engine, he sped up again in hopes of finding that lieutenant again. 

His brother, on the other hand, was having much better luck. He was sitting spread-eagled from a steepled church roof (there was an old law in Rome that said that no building may be taller then a church, making the centuries-old building a prime sniper position). Y's glasses were on the top of his head as he looked through the laser-target scope of a Dragunov SVD. The rifle itself was propped on the roof with a bi-pod and a silencer reduced the sound and muzzle flash. All in all, his less-aggressive tendencies once again earned him the easier job. 

"Ehhhh-keys..." the sniper simpered on his bluetooth. 

"What!"

"I seeeee you." 

"Shut the fuck up!" 

"You're making a valiant effort, but you suck." 

"Then let's switch!"

"You wanted to ride the bike. I could have ridden the bike, but you wanted to beat people with a stick, so I let you." He clicked his tongue. 

"I don't see you putting any souls to rest, Annie Oakley."

"That's 'cause you're too busy with that juggernaut. Watch me amaze you." 

He painted one of a pair of Chariot Family bikers struggling to get X off of them. The weaker rider was struggling so hard to rid himself of the meaner twin that he didn't turn with the road and slammed right into a coffee shop. He was engulfed in oily orange-black flames. 

"Pow!" Y fired off a shot, "One dead Chariot!" 

Lete looked back to see Ugolino take a final bath in flaming gasoline and take the coffee shop with him too. 

"Damn!" He looked back in time to break before X could take his head off with that pipe. Lete's helmet was his old Kevlar helmet from his army days with goggles meant to protect his eyes in sandstorms. He kept his head low as he drove in close to kick at the bike itself and then swerve back out of range. 

"Fucking midget! C'mere!" X snarled. His problem ended when Lete took a fifty caliber bullet to the helmet and fell off his bike. 

"HA!" X laughed and drove on to take on the next person.

Lete's bike swerved and skidded and slowed before coming to a stop some distance away. The violet-haired midget himself was lying in the street, bleeding from the head. His faithful helmet had taken the hit valiantly and split in half redirecting the bullet to the shape of the helmet, which skinned his scalp in a thick red line; a thousand times better then the pink mist that bullet would have turned his head. 

He was hurt too bad to move and knew better because of the sniper on some roof within 800 meters. His whole body was floating in an ocean of pain. His forearm was skinned on one side, his head was bleeding, his back felt like someone stomped on it repeatedly. He almost wished he hadn't been wearing his helmet at all. He wasn't helping Andre on his team anymore, the little man decided as he appreciated the cool stone street. 

The Chariot family preferred choppers that better supported weapons systems and up-armoring. Consequently, they required the bigger, heavier engines that roared. X's sports bike ran on a smaller, electric motor, making it comparatively silent. He stuck his pipe out and caught the rider in the kidneys. He swept past and watched the enemy crash. 

"Two for me, one for you." X gloated, "I'm twice as good as you."

"Oh, big whoop, man. I got something for ya." Y said guardedly. The biker that X was gaining on exploded right in front of him as his brother hit the gas tank. X jerked the brake with a death grip and turned before he could get a mouthful of oily flames. He barely stopped in time. 

"What the fuck! You almost killed me!" 

"Then they'd stop getting us mixed up. That'll teach ya." 

"Oh, I'll get you for this..." X got back on his bike.

"Whatever." 

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

War was brewing even with the Neros to act as a peacekeeper, apparently. The Corvi brothers were acting openly hostile, as they were the only real skill the Christiani Family had. Sophia was quiet, but there had been a few instances of both Christiani and Chariot men simply vanishing only to end up in the Tiber days later, their throats slit. That Roman gundam hadn't been the weapon Alfred Nobel had dreamed of at all; its presence seemed to be a catalyst for aggression from the two 'have-not' gang leaders. Michelo's betrayal had probably angered them enough to attack him anyway, Neros and all.

He was considering using it. 

"You sure it was the twins?" Michelo sat back in the seat of his own motorcycle, which sat at the foot of the Neros Gundam. 

"Positive." Andre said, his body purpled with bruises. Michelo couldn't help but think that they matched his hair nicely, "One of them was attacking bikers on some souped-up Japanese thing, and the other had what Lete said was a soviet sniper rifle." 

"Christiani said he wasn't going to be attacking anybody...did you get the counterstrike done?"

"No."

Michelo swore to himself, snarling. He looked to Andre again, "What are the chances of you trying again?"

"I got the resources, but I think they'd be ready for us." 

"Hm." Michelo nodded, "I'll take care of it." 

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

Michelo walked into the Caribineiri office like he owned the place. Inside the lavish building, he walked around a fountain and to a woman behind a receptionist's desk. 

"Ciao, bella." He smiled warmly and his voice was soft. The young woman smiled back, hiding surprise to see a known criminal before her. He continued, "I'd like to see someone concerning the interior of Neo Italy on Earth." 

"About what matter?" 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you; kindly tell signore Panchella that the gundam fighter has information regarding the security of Neo Italy." 

"Please wait in the lobby." 

Michelo flipped through an old magazine when a tall, thin brunet with a rather mischievous open-mouthed grin greeted him. Panchella had been in the Caribineiri with Michelo years prior, when the Neo nations were all on Threat Level Charlie because of Neo England's consecutive wins. He had helped Michelo become gundam fighter because of his stellar record while he was in.

"My old friend." Panchella hugged Michelo warmly, "Come with me."

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

"Another one got caught in the news today, it's all over the papers." Michelo held the newspaper to every one of his lieutenants. On the front page it read (In translation) "Teenagers arrested in organized crime scandal." 

Michelo's feet were propped on his desk, which was made of glossy cherry wood. Unlike his evil half-sister, Michelo's 'office' was more spartan, with a large map of Rome behind him on the wall. Colored string held in place with pins marked the barriers of each gang. Red for Chariot, purple for Christiani, and gold for Giamonna. To its right, was a map of Neo Italy. Its overlays were much larger, entire confederations; _La Cosa Nostra, Sacra Corona Unita, Il Stidda_, and '_Ndrangheta_ to name a few. 

There was a desktop computer in one corner, a palm-sized one charging in another, then a small arsenal of computer accessories, old notebooks (because Andre _insisted_ on doing all finances by hand on notebook paper and in pencil), and newspapers piled in a final corner. The wall the desk was pushed against was decorated with neon sticky notes. Some were shaped like gundam heads or cartoon characters. 

From a small radio on the desk, a powerful man was singing _"Por ti Volare."_

"So..." Michelo asked,"Which one of you is missing people?"

Fucci, leader of the Libicocco Team, raised his hand, "The Caribineiri knew exactly where we were, boss. We were selling weapons to the Donati Family outside Rome when they caught us with our pants down. We fled, of course, but...not everybody's so fast." 

Michelo nodded, "Anybody else?" 

"I dunno who got caught in the Donati-" "I meant us." 

Da Rimini of Graffiacane team cleared her throat, "Sophia personally picked up my adviser." 

"That's how she plans on getting me back," Michelo threw up his hands, "if she can't beat my gang, she'll take it apart. Mean bitch."

"Sir, how much does she know to use against us?"

"Whatever we haven't changed since we were working together." Michelo leaned back in his chair and propped his head on his thumb and two fingers, "that, and names."

Paranoia flashed like a dream from an old life and Lete scowled, "How do we know it was _Sophie_ that's been diming us out?" 

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

Methodically, Lete peeled away what looked like a nicotine patch. Close, but not quite. Fentynl; sixty times stronger then morphine and used for patients with severe, chronic pain. One patch lasted a week, and Lete couldn't get off of them if he tried. It had been a fateful spinal injury that had finished his military career; he was lucky he could walk. He used medication as powerful has he did in order to keep up with what he'd done before; when he was an infantryman fighting terrorists and rebels. Now he was both. 

The gangster pulled up his wristband and gently applied a fresh, flesh-colored patch to his inner wrist, over a Celtic cross tattoo. He replaced the wrist warmer disdainfully. He'd fought that "medical retirement" with everything he had to no avail. Had they been at war, he'd still be in the Army, maybe at a desk job, but still in the army. He still resented that.

Unofficial flight crew member and leader of the Malebranche team in Michelo's Brigadi Neri, Lete had more power and money then he'd ever had in his old life; he was a god in his own right, free to do whatever he pleased as long as he stayed on Michelo's good side and within the territory of the Brigadi Neri. Many of the ex-sergeant's hours were devoted to wine, women, and song. But nothing in life was ever free. In the beginning, he had done things that didn't exactly agree with his principles. 

Then he forgot that he had them altogether.

He now sported two black eyes and stitches that sewed his scalp back together. His forearms were wrapped up in bandages. No doubt the Corvi Brothers were somewhere, laughing to see what medical treatment the survivors of last night's attack had invested in. If only the head crazy, 'Silver-Feet' Micky himself, had been out that night. They'd have had a ball. 

Lete had to pay too many families for the death of their sons. This hadn't been out of the kindness of his heart, but as an attempt at 'public relations', where a few grand here and there kept the nobodies in the Brigati Neri territory pacified. 

Ever since the primary governments had taken flight into the stars, those left behind had banded together where their weak governments had failed. The resulting vacuum of power gave rise to paramilitary street gangs. The mafia families flourished both in Neo Italy and abroad. What Michelo had established wasn't pure evil; for a 'tax' Michelo provided protection from the anarchy that would have consumed the city otherwise. It was a healthy operation when they weren't at war with another gang. Of course, wars were uncommon; they were expensive, chaotic, and really didn't pay off too well. The three gangs that ran Rome were too evenly matched to do any serious damage to any other. In what concerned all three; they banded together to form the "Tiberina Society", which kept even larger mafioso families out of Rome. It kept the city stable.

And that made Belchino happy. The aging inspector hated those criminals with everything he had, but was willing to put up with the power structure as the least of many, many evils. After all, a confederation of powerful crime lords was much better then dozens of waring factions. And with their power, they mostly dealt 'justice' within their own areas of operation. Most of the old inspector's job involved private citizens that weren't in the family, so to speak. That, and whatever concerned outsiders. 

Sobered by things that were too secret to be understood, Lete ordered a bottle of wine and got halfway through before the hour was up. He hated it in the army and he hated it now; being left in the dark, knowing too little when he was in charge of more lives then himself and possibly the Boss's was infuriating. And being unable to do anything about it was worse. So Lete did what he always did when the power was taken out of his hands. He drank himself into submission. 

"Excuse me." An older male voice asked. 

"Not now, please." Lete held up a hand.

"I've got personal business with Michelo Chariot. You're his right hand, right?"

Lete turned angrily to this rude man and gasped when he saw who it was; he nearly fell out of his chair in surprise.

Master Asia looked almost comically out of place in the dark bar. He folded his arms authoritatively and stared the smaller man down, daring him to fight. Instead, Lete hopped out of his seat. 

"Lemme call him." His tone had completely changed. Shock, submission, awe, maybe even fear spiced his voice as he walked quickly into the men's bathroom and called his boss.

_"Ciao?"_ Michelo's voice was accompanied with the giggle of a girl and the rustle of bedsheets. He was hoping for a meeting with that bony bastard over that skirmish the other night.

"Boss, I got Master-fucking-Asia here wanting to talk to you about personal business. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, over!" 

There was a long pause, "Tell him that I'll meet him at the Bridge of Angels tomorrow at 2100." the boss sounded both surprised and disappointed.

Michelo hung up and Lete stared at his cell phone. Looking into the mirror, Lete saw his face was salt-white and his eyes were showing panic. He had to take a minute to compose himself into a gangster and stepped outside to see the Old Master.

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

The angels on the bridge were crying acid rain tears, as was apparent on the bitter black stains on their faces. Some were missing limbs, hair, heads. It saddened the old man greatly. Such great work thrown away like trash. 

The Old Master never failed to marvel at the filth that had become his home. He had looked at pictures of Rome, ones taken before mankind had made their exodus and fled from the world. Sometimes, Master could imagine that he'd gone to Hell where everything that had been beautiful in the world was destroyed. So people like Michelo were created, and who pointed fingers? The poor man's creators, of course, blaming it all on everyone but themselves. He felt sorry for those turned parasite like Michelo, but that didn't earn them any mercy in his eyes. Michelo would die; his blood sacrificed to save his homeland. His home planet. 

Redemption as the Undefeated saw it.

So it didn't bother Master Asia one little bit to see this poor destroyed thing walking toward him in the warm summer night and imagining what was going to happen to him. The possibly horrifying death he'd face...being literally eaten alive. And slowly too! Master couldn't imagine a worse fate.

"Why'd you have to scare Lete?" Michelo's crow-like voice sort of irritated Master, but he didn't show it. 

"That little man? He's of no concern with me." 

"Well, he's of big concern to me. He's my best friend and right hand." Michelo was looking around nervously, as if anticipating an attack.

"Is that so? Well, then how about I challenge you to a gundam fight match?" And like a ghost, Master got into a stance atop a stony one-winged angel, staring the younger man down. Michelo raised his hands.

"Oh, HELL no. I was told by Wong to survive until at least two months before the finals. I won't touch the Neros until then." Now Michelo understood Domon a little better; that abrupt challenge and narrow-mindedness was picked up with training with this...psycho for so many years. 

"You coward! Then you'll fight me here!" Master charged him like lightening.

He was so fast, Michelo could do little more than counter the tornado of fists and feet. Master knew him well enough to stay in his dead zone, where Michelo couldn't kick. The redhead only rarely got to practice using his knees to fight. Besides, the enemy just moved this way and that; Michelo could only hit air. 

Finally, out of desperation, Michelo curled his fingers thrust them into the the old man's chest, twisting as he extended for more torque. It didn't seem to hurt him, but it did put enough distance between them so that Michelo could kick again. 

"Foolish boy, you can't do a thing when your opponent gets close to you. No wonder you lost so easily!"

That got Michelo good and mad, "Up yours!"

Michelo bounced on his left foot and drew his right up. He ducked his head into his arms to protect him from the split-second vulnerability as he charged up his ethanol-based silver kick.

Master hadn't expected this trick and took a full blast to the chest. He recovered quickly and observed Michelo do it again. He watched the Italian bounce back to keep distance and struck.

Master was blinded in the glare of the light, but he felt the heat and moved under it. The white fire splashed harmlessly on the ground behind him and Master swept Michelo's left foot out from under him.

The redhead landed on his hand as if dancing and managed to use the momentum to swing out both legs. Master absorbed the hit with his forearm. Michelo drew his legs back and curled them under himself so he could bounce back to a standing position. 

Master stayed on all fours and sprang, slamming his head into Michelo's face and grabbing the man's wrists. Michelo spread his arms like a bird and slammed his own forehead into Master's. The older man responded by yanking Michelo's arms down and kneeing him in gut. 

There really was no other pain like getting the wind knocked out of you.

Michelo was stunned and he fell to his knees.

"Seems Wong was wrong about you. You've got to be the worst fighter Neo Italy's ever seen. And they never place better then half anyway."

That was all Michelo needed to hear; motivated by a rare sense of patriotism. He leaped into the air and curled into a ball, then thrust out his leg in a vicious kick. Master turned his head to dodge it and grabbed Michelo's ankle. He tossed the younger fighter like a rag doll several feet. Michelo landed like a cat and growled, rushing his opponent until he was on top of him.

Anger was making him as fast as it was stupid. Michelo made talons of his hand and drove his nails as deep and as hard as he could while his knees moved on their own.

Master saw the open spots and thrust the heel of his hand right under Michelo's nose, "Down, boy!"

The older man brought the knife edge of his hand down to strike the top of Michelo's head, but the younger man ducked and twisted away. In the same movement, his foot connected with Master's chest.

Master broke contact.

"Very, good, Michelo." 

Only Michelo no longer knew the fight was over, so blind in rage was he.

Master detected this and prepared to fight for keeps. His natural talent at work, releasing his opponent's soul in a fight to see what they were really made of, provided they had even the potential to keep up with him to express it. Some called it mind-reading, but it wasn't surface thoughts or memories that he could pick up so much as deep feelings and mindsets. 

The Italian let out a shrill cry and attacked with talons alone. Master grabbed Michelo's wrists and kneed him in the chest. And Michelo kept on coming. Master felt sharp teeth rake his throat. 

Most of what the martial arts guru felt in the fists of any fighter could never be truly expressed with words and Michelo was no different. Negativity was the number one thing. Then as he focused his thoughts, he almost drew back, as if Michelo's thoughts and feelings could burn. 

Destruction by fire.

Master grabbed for this lifeline and held tight. Closing his eyes, he kept a steady grip on Michelo's fist and fought him blindly. His opponent had completely berserked by this point, so it wasn't a terribly impressive feat. Like subduing a child throwing a tantrum.

There was a deep sense of injustice here. Righteous and jealous anger, carefully controlled rage and bottled sorrow. Master almost heard someone screaming. Then there was the deepest set desire to burn. To destroy and be destroyed until not a single stone lay atop another, something Michelo was probably never consciously aware of. Given a funnel and a form, Chariot would indeed make a very powerful weapon. 

The old Master threw Michelo to the side and moved under the inevitable kick to strike at Michelo's throat. He grasped his throat and held tight. Michelo flailed wildly and Master dragged him close enough to shove him to the ground. 

Michelo was unconscious in seconds, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, showing off rows of sharp teeth. Like a mortician, Master gently closed his mouth and eyes. 

The end of the fight was sounded by gentle hooves over the cobblestones. Fuunsaki nudged his owner lightly. Master stroked his face, "Fuunsaki, we can't give this one too much power and we must keep him very controlled. We share the same desire, but not to the same ends. I want to purify this world. Michelo wants to sterilize it." 

The older man picked Michelo up like a child, "Poor bastard. We've really gone downhill if we can produce samples like this." 

Like he used to do for Domon when he'd worked himself into unconsciousness, he placed the unconscious madman on Fuunsaki's back then got on himself so Michelo leaned on his chest. 

And like a dream, he was gone.

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..

Andre was expecting to find Michelo's body in the river. He limped slightly as he walked over to grab his cellphone. A good hundred men had been mobilized to find their wayward boss, but all searches had come up negative. He was abusing some of Lete's fentynl in order to stay cool because he was in a panicky mood. A few footsoilders here and there wasn't a big deal. Pay out a few grand to the families and wait for some other dumb kid to try to edge into the mafia world. But to lose the leader of the gang was decapitation. Sure, the twelve team leaders would be able to run things on their own...until they all killed each other fighting to take that coveted top position. 

"Shit..." Lete was stalking the lobby nervously with an M16A2, "Lemme know who got him...let me at 'em..." 

"Lete, chill." Andre said sternly, picking the smaller man up easily and setting him down on a cream-colored couch. 

"Let me catch the guy that got him..." Lete shook his head. 

"Hey." Michelo was in the doorway, sickly and paler then usual. His hair was unstyled and limp, like he'd gotten into a fight.

"Boss!" Lete exclaimed, He almost ran to him, but restrained himself. He set the automatic rifle down. 

"Andre, Lete." Michelo's voice came flat, uncharacteristic of him, and he even patiently waited for a response.

"Boss? You okay there?" Lete perched atop Andre's shoulder.

"Yeah, fine. Just fine." Michelo sounded anything but. He was too calm, his voice almost canned. Michelo was never that relaxed.

"You don't sound very good." 

"I'm a little sick, is all." 

"Okay...What's going on?"

"I'll be training up with Master Asia for a month or two until the finals."

"You're fucking kidding me." In the middle of a _goddamned war!_

"I'm training with Master for a little bit." Michelo emphasized,"I have to, Andre. I _owe_ Domon for what he's done." Still, no change to his voice.

"Well, yeah...but a little warning would have been nice." 

A soft chuckle, Michelo softly shrugged, "Yeah, I know it was short notice, _mi dispiace di non avertelo detto prima._ But no worries. That Neo Japanese sonuvabitch really put me in it. I'm practically obligated to fight him, you know." 

Andre himself never fully agreed with the extent that the omerta went when it came to revenge. Sure, that Neo Japan dude was dead if he ever set foot back in Rome, but why should Michelo hunt him? Wasn't making sure the Family didn't fall more important then a personal vendetta? Domon Kasshu could wait, as far as Andre was concerned. 

"Okay...I guess I can't stop you...uh..you call if you need anything right? I mean, if you need help or something..." The giant was very careful with his words, but not nearly as articulate as Lete, so he had to pause to think of what exactly to say. He wasn't stupid, per say, but not very good with words either. He was also wondering if maybe things were a little more scrambled in his boss's head then usual. 

"S'okay, guys, I can take care of myself. Peace." 

"Peace! What do I tell the others?" Lete exclaimed, he was the most agitated at the moment.

"What I told you, dolt. Take care of yourself." Michelo started to leave.

"Wait, how do we keep in contact?" Andre reached out to him.

"You won't be able to. I need to focus on kicking the living shit out of Kasshu right now. I know you can take care of this all by yourselves. Just remember, don't mistake rank for superiority; the oldest may learn from the youngest. Andre, you're in charge. Lete, make sure he doesn't screw it up." Michelo didn't turn to face his men, he was looking at the floor. 

_"Fai attenzione e torna a casa presto._ And see you at the finals." Andre said, resigned and trying to keep Lete from fighting the Boss's decision. Like a cat, Lete leaped off Andre's shoulder. Andre caught him by the waist and held fast. 

"See you then. _Ciao."_

Michelo walked back out the door, posture straight, as if a single careless movement would cause him to break. As he disappeared into the warm summer light, Lete saw him enter a door that only had room for one person. 

"See you at the finals." the small gangster said, resigned.

As soon as he was gone, Andre turned to Lete and said,"Has he lost his goddamned _mind_!"

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..


	5. The Forecast is Insanity

The Forecast is Insanity

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.

"So..." Michelo started, "To what do I owe this great honor of training under you?" Michelo didn't like the Undefeated of the East, who seemed none too fond of him, but if they were going to be working together, they might as well get along. They were taking a trip to Neo Brazil and the plane ride was a long one, filled with stops in places like Neo Spain, Neo America, and Neo Mexico. As soon as Master woke him from the fight, he had two tickets to an earthen airport.

And he had agreed to go. Michelo was beginning to wonder if he really was as crazy as everyone said he was. He had a good life in Neo Italy and was content to never see another gundam until the finals, but...there had been an agitation in Rome that he'd longed to shake himself. A restlessness that he could neither place nor name. But he had to get out of there.

No doubt that his cohorts were as confused over his actions as he was.

"Remember the Devil Gundam?"

"Of course," Michelo was less confident then he appeared. Getting the scare of his life and cardiac arrest in one day wouldn't be easily forgotten. Then there was the burning question as to why he was talking about this in an airplane.

"You think Wong wanted to show a disqualified lightweight such power for the fun of it?" Instantly, Michelo was angry. He folded his arms.

"I never agreed to anything."

"Well, he's already reinstated you into the gundam fight. You know how many times this has happened?"

"None." Michelo folded his arms and scowled, "And believe me, I'm grateful, but seriously, when did I get a say in any of this?"

"In Shinjuku! Don't you-?! Never mind. Think of the reprieve in the gundam fight as a welcoming gift." Master saw the look on Michelo's face and he softened somewhat, "Look, you're right. This isn't just charity."

"Then what is it?"

"What If I told you that that monster you saw wasn't all that it seemed?"

"I'd say that thing looked pretty fucking evil to me."

"Looks are deceiving. That gundam is a savior."

"And I thought_ I_ had cracked."

Master laughed, "Take a nap, Chariot, you'll learn soon enough."

Michelo fumed and laid his head down and slept without dreaming.

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.

Sophia stretched out naked and lazy beneath ruby silk sheets, her hair fanned out over her back and she hugged her pillow. Fully dressed and at the foot of the bed was Maria, buttoning up her red coat. Sophia had taken a trip to the Neo Italian colony to see her beau, Maria; like her male counterparts, she had her lieutenants to take care of things temporarily. The apartment was shadowy, sultery, and warm.

It was small if only because of its sole occupant. Like many ambitious young politicians, she admired the skyline of what she sought to one day make hers. Neo Italy. Unlike Michelo, who wasn't even allowed to acknowledge her father as his, Maria enjoyed all of the trappings of wealth and power. The apartment was in the corner of the building, and so two walls were made entirely of reflective glass. The Tiber and Po rivers had been masterfully recreated on the colony, and in the night, the ribbons of light that made up their heavily populated banks cast muted gold into her bedroom. It was night on the colony.

"He doesn't plan on using the Neros until the finals." Sophia said, "Hardly sounds like him."

"Once bitten, twice shy." Maria reminded, "Though Michelo's a lot of things and forgiving isn't one of them. Waiting for the finals rather then pursue his attacker is frankly out of character. But he does bend to authority when gently coerced. And according to my excellent prediction, Wong's pushing all of Michelo's little buttons."

"So, he'd ever explain why he reinstated Micky into the Gundam Fight? Hardly inclusive to the drive to stay in power."

"He told me to ask Michelo; who's either insane or a good liar. He said he didn't know."

"Why do you even call him that?" Sophia shut her eyes, annoyed, "I know who he is, you know who he is. Let's stop calling him that stupid stage name."

Maria shrugged, "It's what he wants to be called. I didn't fill out the paperwork. At any rate, what I'm wondering is what the hell Wong's game is. Reinstating a gundam fighter is hardly inclusive to the drive to stay in power. And if he's doing it simply in hopes of driving down potential competition, disqualified fighters are hardly choice candidates."

The fairer of the two shook her head, "It's because Wong knows Micky."

"How?" Maria turned, wondering if she should be nicer to her estranged brother. Half-brother, she liked to remind herself.

"We were in Neo England in FC 56, trying to save our marriage...or keep the Gundam fight from falling apart. Whichever came first. Micky chased me into the Caribinieri, remember?"

"He joined in hopes of either impressing you or because Neo Italy _never_ selects _anybody_ who isn't somehow affiliated with the _Meritorious Corps_."

"Yeah..." Sophia sat up and rubbed her eyes, keeping the carmine sheets wrapped around her. Gold hair cascaded down her breasts, "I found it somewhat endearing if only because of the slight chance at the former."

"I didn't know Michelo was in Neo England."

"Remember? Neo England was getting so much pressure because they kept _winning_ that their allies had to guard their Gundam Fights to prevent someone from screwing with them."

"_Psh_, didn't work in their favor. " Maria giggled nastily, "And Prime Minister ordered troops sent to guard the finals. But I don't remember sending Michelo there."

"Because you didn't." The blonde was getting annoyed at hearing her ex-husband's new moniker, "He requested it directly from the Prime Minister himself and got to go because he was the shoo-in for gundam fighter the next time."

"And nobody told me?" Maria asked dangerously. Her cinnamon eyes darkened, which the blonde liked.

"You never asked; you never thought Micky mattered." Sophia pulled her hair into a ponytail.

"Not until he was a fighter candidate."

·.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.·´´¯··..··.¸¸.

"Michelo!" Master's harsh voice cut him.

The Italian woke up screaming and Master had to cover his mouth.

"You know who else is here?!" They were in a Neo Brazilian hotel because Wong had insisted that they land in Neo Brazil, not Neo Guyana. It was far from cheap, but eletricity was sporadic at best so the air condioning was the night breeze. The windows were open to let in the breeze and Michelo, Master, and the fugitive Jean-Pierre Mirabeau had to sleep under nets. The Frenchman had opened his eyes and sat straight up; as soon as he saw that nothing was amiss, he was asleep again.

The Europeans had done their best to communicate with slow, elementary Portuguese they'd picked up from a travel brochure mixed with their own native tongues. Master had been mute, and it took several days for Wong to arrive with a digital interpreter. Had they been in the colonies, everyone would have used plain English, but in a failing infrastructure on Earth there were few operating schools. English was limited to what those with television could grasp. They would stay in this hotel for one more night, afterward, they would move to Sao Paul.

"I had a nightmare." Michelo said shakily, "About the twelfth Gundam Fight."

Master rubbed his back for a second. Michelo rubbed his face, "The battle where you very nearly lost your life?"

Michelo snapped to the old man, shocked, "I was never in Neo England!" Then he bit his tounge, realizing just how badly he implicated himself.

"Don't lie to me, Michelo." Master laughed, "We know exactly who you are. Did you pick that name yourself?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Michelo said with a level voice.

"First Lieutenant Michelangelo Ligouri; you were EOD in the Caribineiri, but you told me once that you'd always wanted to fly instead." Wong said, stylish as always -even in pajamas- from the doorway. Michelo had woken him up with his screaming, "Your career was cut short when you sustained a traumatic brain injury in the line of duty during the twelfth gundam fight when you got the prestigious embassy duty. You had one of the hardest times getting into the gundam fight except your liaison with the Ministry of Defense helped you out in exchange for information concerning organized crime within the country." the look on Michelo's face was priceless, "You had your name legally changed to Michelo Argento Ciariotto, so naturally, everyone calls you Chariot. I like Chariot better, personally."

The old man nodded.

"Details concerning the Witness Protection Program are supposed to be secret!" Michelo was about to have a fit and could sense it coming on, a figment of his imagination was literally breathing down his neck, "You're not even an Italian!"

"It is my right to know who's participating in my gundam fight." Wong said matter-of-factly.

"How did you find me?" the Italian was seriously considering making a hasty mistake and disappearing into Neo Brazil. Hands the size of frying pans were massaging his shoulders. They were only the size of frying pans because he was so much smaller then. But if nobody acknowledged something, then it was probably in his best interests not to acknowledge it either. He felt a phantom pain blossoming at the base of his skull.

"Remember when Master brought you to Shinjuku? I recognized you immediately. I had originally thought that whomever submitted your biometric data was being lazy; now I know that they were trying to protect you."

"But now my cover's blown." Michelo said breathlessly. He was too scared to look down when the phantom arms embraced his waist.

"I wouldn't worry about _him_," Wong pointed with his chin toward Mirabeau, "And your sister trusts me with the information; you should too."

From his trench coat pocket, he pulled a flask and threw it underhand to Michelo.

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There was a trail of scattered rosy lights leading north across Neo Brazil and into Neo Guyana. They seemed too brilliant, too powerful to be without purpose, yet any person who saw them either passed by without interest, or foolishly followed them into the jungle, into madness, and into assimilation.

Past the lights was a breathing, hulking mass tucked neatly into the jungle, spires stretched into the night sky like living skyscrapers. Before this hulking mass, sudden wounds spurt boiling liquid fire into deep pits the mass itself had dug with its golden claws.

The burning silver bleeding from the Devil Gundam had the texture of satin and the radiance of a smile to the Chinese men above it. Showers of sparks flowed from the open wounds of the Devil Gundam looking as harmless and friendly as children's sparklers. The liquid metal fell through space into the deep clay pits where it mixed with the Earth below and burst into flames, then coated the pits in silver. The Devil Gundam did this four times.

Occasionally, premature fits of life emerged, hinting at their eventual purpose. A long blinding white spear shot from an earthen womb like a declaration to what the Devil Gundam was programmed to claim. Slowly, though, it seemed to reconsider and sink back into the earth.

The Chinese men knew that it was foolish, even so, they couldn't help but admire its beauty. It had the power to annihilate every living thing and structure on the planet. Yet every inch of its course, every ounce of its power and every nanomachine that made the gundam, was controlled by the conscious intention of two ambitious men.

"Mirabeau isn't a real gundam fighter." Wong intoned seriously, looking down at the sun-colored liquid. As the rolling surfaces of golden white metal stilled, they began ice over and seal in slick silver sheets.

"And neither is Michelo, when you think about it." Master was just as serious.

"I've already reinstated Michelo into the gundam fight." Wong's eyes were as narrow as coin slots and glittered with amusement, "He's as much a gundam fighter as you."

"Don't group me with trash like him!" Master's eyes flashed. Wong laughed inwardly, the offense one little petty lick he allowed himself.

"Mirabeau is a rouge element that owes no loyalty to anyone." Wong reminded.

"And Michelo?"

"Is an old friend of mine."

"Don't think you owe him anything for that incident in London. Or for him helping himself. Don't think he cared about helping the rest of the world out. Besides," Master's eyes were blazing with contempt, "I could have beaten Chapman with my own strength."

"I don't and you could have," Wong allowed this omission, "But what we're doing is treasonous; we could very well face execution for this. Michelo Chariot's entire livelihood consists of doing things like this. And every time, he's been able to turn a profit. I wish I knew his financial adviser."

"What's that have to do with what we're doing?"

"He's only been working at it for four years and in that time he's smuggled weapons into Neo Russia, drugs into Neo England, and operates a very successful protection racket deep in the heart of Neo Italy. Now he's been using the government to further his own schemes. Everything he touches turns to gold and the boy can keep a secret. What can your boy do?"

"Would you mess with the French Foreign Legion? Jean-Pierre Mirabeau's got the most confirmed kills of any solider besides maybe Chapman himself. Yours is a Randian sociopath that knows how to make money."

"Mirabeau's only appeal is his soldiering ability. I want a competent minion, not some Rambo. Besides, Michelo has placement. He is a Representative of Neo Italy, not a convict on the run. We won't have to hide him."

"The man's special forces. The most prestigious special forces in the world. And only the strongest are fit to fight in the Devil Army. Besides, he's very easy to control so long as he depends on us for protection and livelihood."

Wong knew that neither of them were showing any signs of giving in, but what Master simply didn't understand was the backlash that would come from anybody finding out that he was harboring a convicted mass-murderer. Interpol wasn't stupid, and not even Wong could weasle out of something like that, "Then have them fight it out. With or without gundams if you want."

Master smiled, sure of his -Mirabeau's- victory, "What gundam did you plan on giving the winner?"

The Prime Minister pointed to the rising wings of a gundam, grudgingly putting his faith once again in a prodigal young gangster. Wong smiled only because he had put his faith in him twice before, and Michelo hadn't failed him yet.

"The aerial one."

The last bright beams of sunlight faded from below as the four unborn kings of the Devil Gundam slept.

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Wong set his bowl of ice cream down on the table. Michelo had another headache, even in the fresh Neo Brazilian air. The balcony overlooked Sao Paul and the view was breathtaking. But Wong hadn't selected the meeting site for the beauty so much as security. Wong and Mirabeau dressed like tourists, tropical shirts, relaxed shorts and flip-flops. Michelo, who considered going outside without body armor akin to suicide, wore his same jacket and jeans. If he felt the humid heat, he didn't show it. The sun was a red-orange line on the horizon and the clouds were translucent streaks of rose quartz.

The Frenchman flexed his fingers back until they almost touched the back of his wrists. He was calm, but had a nervous energy about him. Even without a war, he had over forty confirmed kills to his name. Those tattoos under his eyes didn't dampen the image of a professional killer, either. And Michelo didn't ever see him smile; he was a far cry to the decadant...man that had beaten him out of the gundam fight and landed him in jail for a thousand years. In fact, except for the light skin and dark eyes, he didn't look like a normal Frenchman at all since their posh revival of pre-revolutionary France. He was even more frightening now then he was four years ago.

"Michelo here," Wong turned to Mirabeau, "is an Italian gangster situated in Rome. He's also Neo Italy's current gundam fighter. He's looking to kill Domon Kasshu of the Shuffle Alliance."

Mirabeau looked Michelo over, "You keep playing off my hatred of George de Sand." he observed, talking to but not looking at, Wong; his voice was very soft, but rough like whiskey, "The best thing I could have ever done to improve Versailles was blow it to pieces." he was getting worked up at the memory to be sure, but he still spoke with that quiet, gravelly voice, "It was that pèdè's fault; I still can't believe he redirected the missiles into the crowd!" Mirabeau shook his head, and with good reason. Who saved the Royal Family (Who had only taken power after the Chaos War) at the expense of a thousand innocent civilians? But as Mirabeau clearly knew, such logic was rarely employed in the colonies.

_Okay, I see your point, but you're the one that fired the missiles in the first place._ Michelo thought, but never said. _Both of you ought to be locked up._

Like Michelo had any right to say who should and shouldn't be incarcerated.

"So why are we here?" Michelo asked, sipping wine, though it was still early. From what Wong had implied, the should be in the Guyana Highlands.

"Just north of us is the Shuffle Alliance, training in the Guyana Highlands." Mirabeau half-whispered, half-growled. He cracked his knuckles, "That means your guy and mine are in one spot, training up for the gundam fight."

Michelo felt like he'd swallowed a fireball. He grit his teeth and felt his body tremble. Like hitting a switch, just mentioning his _name _got the trumped fighter angry.

"Don't even think about it." Wong warned, "As you are, I doubt very seriously that you could take on Domon Kasshu and four of the most powerful gundams on Earth. And those four pilots happen to be his closest friends."

Michelo snapped his head to face Wong and opened his mouth as if to say something; Wong cut him off, "With all due respect to you and the Neros, don't forget that he has the superior gundam."

"I won't use my gu-""Domon has friends in high places." Wong repeated, "You can't take them _all_ on."

Realizing that, Michelo collapsed into his chair, breathing hard to calm down, then he bolted up suddenly, in Wong's face, "You know what he-!" "Patience." He was unflinching even with a hot-tempered madman within biting distance and as cool as the ice cream in his hand.

"I'm in the same boat as you, Chariot, don't worry." Mirabeau didn't grin so much as he bared his teeth, "They'll get theirs."

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"So, how much of what's going on do you really know?" Mirabeau asked. He was leaning against the wall of their room that they decided to share as convict couldn't check one out himself.

"The Devil Gundam is a living gundam that can mass produce mobile suits on its own, and its recently laid waste to an entire Japanese city." the redhead sat down on his bed, looking up at the cracks in the ceiling.

"Did you know that it uses living things to power those mobile suits?"

Those metallic rats came to mind then, Michelo looked down, "Something like that."

"It infects people too." Mirabeau lifted the sleeve of his shirt and showed the gangster.

"Dio mio!" Michelo gasped, covering his mouth, afraid to touch, "tell me that's a really bad case of psoriasis."

"Nope, these are DG cells, nanomachines that create miracles."

"Looks like a disease."

__

"Hmph, these things can revive the dead."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"I fled to earth after I escaped from prison." Mirabeau explained, rolling down his sleeve, "And came here to Neo Brazil. The entire time, I was being chased by Imperial Guards. They were nowhere near a match for me, even in a ship like that, eventually though, they managed to shoot me down." Mirabeau laughed, "I don't know if I lived or not."

Mirabeau recreated it in his head, the lucky shot that tore right into the cockpit, the heat of the laser blistering his skin without even touching it. Everything he was standing on fell apart, and the Frenchman was sent spinning along with everything in the cockpit. His back slammed into the console and Mirabeau felt his head crack against the glass; he might have even fell out of the ship.

He didn't feel the impact.

Michelo raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, man, that space between life and death...it gets worse every time I see it. The deck of my ship was streaked with my blood. It wasn't the pain that bothered me, it was what I couldn't feel that was scary! Now, imagine yourself lost in a random jungle surrounded by creatures and humans who want nothing more then to kill you. It's some scary shit." Mirabeau paused, "I'm pretty sure I died."

"Oh please, if you died, you wouldn't be here."

"No, listen. Everything faded to white..."

Nothing had angered him more then the thought that he would die there in that jungle, not even being able to face the enemy that had did this to him in the first place. That enemy who had robbed him of his right to represent Neo France and prove to the world that they weren't that shallow decadent culture, that they were still men. No, he couldn't die here.

The world was lined in red blood vessels and his body was cold. Everything was muted except for his own labored breathing which was getting shallow with each breath. The world twisted and swirled around him, then went black. An eternity later, everything went white and Jean-Pierre felt absolutely nothing. Then, a man blotted out the light. He stood with his arms folded, casting the dying man in shadow.

"What are you doing, boy? You aren't seriously going to kick off _here_, are you?"

NO! Came Mirabeau's answer. He wasn't sure if he had said it only in his head or not, but he took a great deep breath.

"I snapped back to reality in a monster's embrace. And I was in my gundam, like I'd been fighting. The Godarls that had been chasing me where nowhere to be seen. Just smoking wreckage. The Master Gundam was there, and he was smiling."

Michelo laughed, unbelieving, "Did you kill the man that killed you, Jean Pierre?"

Mirabeau growled with a smile, "I'm not dead yet."

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"Aren't you a...?" The Prime Minister searched for the word, motioning to the dancer/fighters in the ring.

"Caporista?" Michelo asked.

"That's it. Caporista."

"Yeah."

The two men were standing in the circle; Michelo nodded to the beat of the fast music while explaining the fight in a lively, though not unfreindily manner. There was a match between who Wong knew to be the gundam fighter for Neo Brazil and another opponent. The music was upbeat and loud, with a percussion instrument driving the music. The two men were wearing nothing more then baggy pants, crouched in the ring. Their feet moved to the music.

The fight started suddenly, with Neo Brazil's fighter lunging for the opponent with his knee. The opponent slapped it away and countered by lifting himself off the ground and kicking for the head. Neo Brazil knocked his own feet out from under him and rolled away. They were still moving to the music.

Meanwhile, black eyes followed the subtle movement of the fighters and compared them to Michelo's.

"So you see, it's not likely of him to attack using his hands. His style is not suited for it. Hands are used for defense."

"I see." Mirabeau mused, "Caporista was invented by slaves for the sake of fighting while bound in chains. They put it to music and make it look like a dance to disguise what it really was. For the longest time, it was the favored martial art of criminals to the point of it being banned."

"Fight a few in your day?" Master smiled.

Mirabeau shook his head, "Not really, most practitioners start at a young age, so few people have the drive to stick with it long enough to get really deadly with it. See how hard that stuff is?"

Neo Brazil had been thrown into the air by his opponent. Airborne, he bent backward, curling his left leg under him and stretching his right leg back behind him. His arms were curled over his chest and his torso was twisted almost completely around. A second later, he untwisted and let his leg fly into his opponent, who was knocked sideways into the air and out of the ring.

The bronze-skinned man bowed to his opponent and even helped him onto his feet. They embraced quickly and parted.

"I didn't know men were that flexible." Mirabeau remarked coolly.

"Michelo Chariot is." Master muttered, "And that brings me to why I brought you here; Wong's unchecked agenda's compromising our mission. Now I can't get rid of _him_, but there is someone I _can_ be rid of. If you win this upcoming match, that punk's history."

Mirabeau turned to the Old Master, surprised, the Undefeated continued, "You two will fight for one of the four positions of the Four Heavenly Kings. Without his protégé, Wong's sphere of influence won't extend past the political arena. And a politician should never have any say in what goes on in a war."

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Trip put his Panama hat down on the table, yellow eyes staring forward as he watched a caporiea match between what intelligence believed was Neo Brazil's gundam fighter and another nameless opponent. His government-issued cell phone was linked directly to Maria. He was sitting in the shade in a white leisure suit, his clavicles jutting out sharply under a lavender collared shirt. Clawed fingers ran through his greasy hair then drummed on the white plastic surface of the table. He liked that bit Master had to say about Michelo; he liked how _someone _agreed with him about the generally unsatisfactory gundam fighter Michelo made. Then again, most anybody would have made a better fighter in Trip's eyes. Self-conscious, Trip. cracked his jaw.

"Babe, they're putting your brother against JP. Harboring a mass-murder and making him fight Micky in the name of some government project they got going on. Apparently it involves gundam fighters and doesn't that make our boy a traitor? Just a thought. And from what I can gather, they got Micky's real information from you." The gangster spat the last sentence, angry at the violation of the program that depended on classifying information the most. Of course, he loved the idea that the program could be compromised, but still...it pricked him to know that such sensitive matters could be bought and sold.

"Trip, don't forget who's the Minister of Defense. I handed that folder to Wong personally. He asked for it right around the time Michelo escaped from that mental institute, and I'd rather not cross him at the moment. And one more thing, Michelo and I do _not_ share the same mother, therefore, we cannot be called brother and sister, now can we?"

"My apologies, ma'am." Trip corrected before she could go on an spiel regarding her superior family lineage compared to Michelo's disgraced Moroccan slut that had been run out of- Trip had heard it a thousand times more then he cared to from Maria and Michelo and Sophie, "What do you know about any prior relations these two might have had?"

"Ask Sophie. You mentioned something about a pet project they have using gundam fighters?"

"Mirabeau and Michelo will be squaring off in a gundam fight match. Most likely as a sort of initiation rite or competition to see who makes it into the project. To your _half-_brother's credit, Wong seems to favor him. No further information."

There was a pause, "Continue to monitor, don't do a damned thing without my permission, and keep me updated on any changes. Finally, and most importantly, find out when and where the match is."

"Will do, ma'am."

Trip stood up, putting his hat back on and walked casually toward a certain hotel. He put sunglasses on.

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"...So I want you to show Master and that psycho convict what a gundam fighter really is. Mirabeau's defining characteristic is his ruthlessness, so I want you to consider that. We don't need them taking too much control." The mossy-haired man grinned wickedly as the crowds dispersed. The two were walking back to the hotel, Michelo was staring down at the street while his boss talked.

Michelo nodded gravely, his hands turning into fists and his teeth tightening, "Yes, sir," As if he didn't have enough enemies, now Master Asia had called a hit on him, "Where was Master's change of heart?"

"When he found a fighter he liked better. But because of me, he's willing to give you another chance."

"_Hmph,_ I don't need _his _approval."

"That's the spirit, but I digress; it will be a Gundam Fight match here in Neo Brazil." Wong pulled a strip of paper with MGRS coordinates out of his pocket and held it out to Michelo. The Italian took it between his two fingers. Readable, but only useful on a gundam's mapping system, the alphanumeric code told him very plainly that the match would take place within a thousand meter square somewhere near Neo Guyana.

Wong nodded, "As soon as Mirabeau gets back from fighting George de Sand, assuming he survives, you'll be his next opponent."


	6. Helter Skelter

_Helter Skelter_

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Michelo hadn't been outside half an hour and already loose strands of hair clung to his moist skin like cuts. But warm weather suited him and he still wore his at least his jacket when leaving a building. Despite the upcoming match already lined up for him by Jean-Pierre, he was feeling like a gundam fighter today and sought out that man he'd seen fight the day before.

Had it been the day before?

Michelo shook his head; it had been, He decided, even if he was losing the concept of time. Mestre Ababelado (His real name being a closely guarded secret) was the gundam fighter for Neo Brazil and fought with Michelo's brand of martial arts, so it would be a nice change of pace. Unlike many of the elite gundam fighters of the world, where gross talent and elite secret training hardened these men (and occasional handful of women) into the warrior cream of the crop for their countries, Michelo had simply taken classes for Caporia while spending his pre-teen and teenage years in a military academy, far away from Earth. His teacher had been an Angolan ex-gundam fighter that saw potential in Micky, but resisted when he saw just how big the young boy's appetite for destruction was.

Once, Lete had asked why he was so far from what any military would consider ideal. Michelo replied with a laugh, "Because I used to be in the military!"

Ababelado wasn't hard to find but Michelo felt a pang of remorse that he was using Neo Hong Kong's intelligence to point out where he was rather then Neo Italy's, but who had better intel then the people running the gundam fight?

Besides, he would use his _own_ intelligence before he'd ask Sophie or Trip for help.

Ibirapuera Park was huge, comparable to Central Park in New York City, and finding a single person would prove to be difficult, but as a general rule, gundam fighters stuck out like a sore thumb. Michelo just caught the sound of traditional Brazilian music and followed it.

Mestre Ababelado was bronze-skinned with dreadlocked brown hair and a broad white smile. He wasn't in this fight, rather, he was beating a drum that stood about waist high to a game before him where two younger students were demonstrating various high-flying moves.

Michelo let himself into the circle, content to watch as one fighter was thrown out of the ring and the game was over. The two shook hands and moved to the outside of the circle. Ababelado stepped into the roda (or circle) and gestured to Michelo.

"Hey, you, redhead!"

"Mm?" Michelo pointed back with his chin.

"You're a gundam fighter, eh?"

"Sure am." Michelo furrowed his eyebrows and smiled.

A student spoke in her language, all Michelo understood was his name and his country.

"Gundam fighter, are you a caporista? My intelligence," He cocked his head toward a student, "tells me you are."

"I am." Michelo grinned even broader, "And I'd like to play with you."

"Are you challenging me to a gundam fight?" The master smiled arrogantly.

"Maybe," the redhead folded his arms, "But I'd like to buy a game first."

The Mestre laughed and stepped into the roda. Michelo pulled his jacket off and let it fall to the grass. It was far heavier then an ordinary aviator jacket because of the armor that lined the inside.

"Dragonskin and hydrostatic gel? What wars are you fighting gundam man?"

Michelo grinned inwardly as he removed his tanker boots and kneepads, then his shoulder sling, pistols, and shirt. He stretched a bit before he stepped into the roda. The grass was cool and soft on his feet.

As soon as he got to Abadelado, the two fighters crouched. They patted each other's palms, then the music started.

Michelo, the smaller fighter, got his licks in first with a spring to his feet and two rapid roundhouse kicks to his chest. The third time he tried it, Abadelado turned and bent so his weight was on his arms. He then rolled back so both feet hit the Italian in the chest and face. Michelo rolled into a backward somersault and tucked his legs to his chest, then sprang back, hitting the Brazilian square in the chest.

Ababelado flew backward, winded, onto his back, then rolled to his feet. Michelo cleared the distance between them and leaped into the air. Ababelado grabbed his foot and threw it, causing Michelo to lose balance, but he managed to keep his feet to the ground and land gracefully. Ababelado crouched and spun to knock him off his feet again, but Michelo jumped and rolled into a flip. Ababelado felt small hands roll off his shoulders and then Michelo was behind him.

The Italian crouched and planted his hands. Then he kicked out his legs and knocked his opponents out from under him. Ababelado fell, but shot his arms out first and softened the blow. Both Abadelado and Michelo twirled to his feet.

The Italian kicked his leg in the air, missed, then let it drop for an axe kick. Abadelado grabbed the foot, and yanked, sending Michelo to on knee with the other foot trapped, the Brazilian slid forward, almost catching Michelo in the groin, had the latter not rolled away. Michelo grabbed Ababelado and shouldered his chest. hard, then jumped away, bowing in midair, to head butt. Then he leaned back so his straight legs were in front of him and caught the Mestre in the gut. The Italian straightened out, still in midair, then rolled and allowed his left leg to hit the ground and back-kicked Ababelado in the face. Another roll and it was his right foot on the ground and his left in the opponent's face.

Ababelado then leaped into the air, arching his back as far as it would stretch, keeping his left leg tucked under him and his right straight out behind him. He let the tension go caught the Italian in the chest, sending him flying. He landed several feet away, his head outside of he roda.

Michelo stood up and smiled, remembering that this was supposed to be a game. Michelo locked that move away in his mind. He dusted off the seat of his pants.

"Mestre," Ababelado was referring to Michelo as a master like himself, "I would be honored to face you in a gundam fight match, but I already lost to Neo Angola!"

"Contra-Mestre." Michelo automatically corrected, allowing himself to be flattered, "I knew you were, but I wanted to fight anyway. But you don't seem upset about losing."

"Traveling was nice, but I like teaching at my academy more."

As Michelo walked back to the hotel, he felt better then he had in months.

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George de Sand felt a cool calmness as he stood over Jean-Pierre, who was tied to a tree. There was a sense of power here, as his opponent sat limply with his back against the hard wood. Mirabeau, hot from the battle and exhausted from the DG purge, rested his head back and appreciated the soft wind and shade. If he was upset that he couldn't beat what he hardly considered a man. he didn't show it. He was wearing his prison uniform not because he didn't store better clothing in the gundam, but because that's what he was dressed in when he woke up.

Domon and Rain had left Neo France to their own business.

Mirabeau was smiling grimly.

George inhaled softly before he spoke, "I've called your old friends."

He was referring the French Foreign Legion, who preferred to deal with all matters concerning their members, past and present. Mirabeau kept his eyes closed, "I figured, so do you think I'll get a fair trial?"

George chuckled bitterly, "Monsieur Kasshu has a few questions for you."

_Neo Japan?_ The ex-legionnaire sat his head up, "I could have sworn that the Devil Gundam was of Chinese make."

The redhead shook his head, "Not at all, but none of that is your concern."

Mirabeau ducked his head and smiled, eyes closed, shaking his head. He looked up, amused, "So what do you want to know?"

"Who gave you DG cells?"

"Master Asia." he replied crisply.

"Who else is in on this?"

"Nobody else. Master Asia, Kyoji Kasshu, and myself." Red eyes on violet, tone level, no fidgeting, he was not even sweating.

"Who else is infected with DG cells?"

"Only myself."

"Where is the Devil Gundam?"

"Here in Guyana."

"Where in Guyana is it?" George iterated each word.

"Here, somewhere in the jungle."

When George showed signs of a temper, Mirabeau laughed softly, "Rich boy, that thing _moves_. The last place I saw it was here, if that's what you're asking." He grinned angrily, mocking George's interrogation skills, but he wasn't finished there, "Master told me you were infected once too. Said it gave you PTSD."

George's eyes widened, "What did you say?"

"What's wrong? Don't think he'd have told me? Said you played a big part in leveling Shinjuku."

"That's what DG cells do, as you've clearly found." George's hands were trembling, though with fear or anger, who could say?

"The Devil Gundam controlled me."

"Not likely, George," Mirabeau bared his teeth, "It has a will of its own, sure, but it's also very heavily influenced by humans. Devil Gundam cells can't make you do what you really don't want to do. I am the man with the single most confirmed kills of any on Earth but," his eyes gleamed, "I'll be glad to half them with you."

Mirabeau didn't even see George's hand rear back, just felt the surprisingly hard, heavy slap. The prisoner exhaled, his face burning. He looked back at George through a curtain of displaced hair, surprised and angry.

The redhead's lip twitched with his loss of control and he rubbed the palm of his hand disdainfully; his were eyes closed so he didn't have to look at him, "You devils...you bring out the worst in me."

The knight turned and left.

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Tripsy listened to his minions with half an ear, while listening to his own thoughts with the other. Sure, his absolute hatred of Michelo had motivated him to become Maria's lackey (and how best to keep one's enemy close beside joining his flight crew?), but he was still a gangster and he still had business to conduct on his own battlefront. Michelo, on the other hand, seemed to have neglected his family altogether. Trip's room was next to Michelo's.

Between X's arrogant gloating and Y's dead recitation of facts with their almost identical voices, it was very hard to listen on how badly the Chariot family was doing. Then the inevitable question:

"When are you coming back?"

"I told you already, X. When the gundam fight is over, we'll finish this."

"Y, " Y corrected angrily.

"Sorry, Y, you two just-" "Sound the same?!"

"Honestly, you call yourself our boss?"

'Hey, hey, honest mistake."

The brothers grumbled.

"Why are we even fighting those guys?" X asked.

"Everyone knows that they're all mostly a bunch of assholes, but I can live with them."

"Boys, you ever wonder why I don't like Micky?"

Three years ago, at Christmas, Trip played a cool jazzy version of Carol of the Bells, not moving, inanimate, while the leader singed his heart out. Romano felt like anything but cheery, but his fingers moved and his lungs blew. He played masterfully. Because attention was not meant to be drawn to him, the young saxophone master was wearing a plain black tuxedo.

The leader had given him the chance of a lifetime to play a solo for this Christmas day and as the leader's voice faded out, his saxophone's voice became stronger, taking a life of its own. It lifted into the air and danced through the audience. The idea that he could miss a single note, that one harsh tone would occur, was absurd. His fingers obeyed, his breath was steady, and the solo went off without a hitch.

He was playing so loudly that nobody noticed that a young man with shoulder-length hair standing at the entrance had cocked a shotgun.

The music ended with the sound of thunder; because the leader was standing slightly ahead of the young soloist, he received instant death courtesy of a benelli nova. He hit the ground, his stomach and both arms torn open and his eyes staring, glassy, at the stage lights.

The buckshot wasn't content with simply killing the leader of the Sultans of Swing. The pellets ripped out of his green suited back and sprayed into Romano's face, tearing out his jawbone and sending him to the floor in shock. The lead spray had torn open his shoulder and ripped strips of flesh away from his ribcage. His hands, holding the reed instrument, were safe. The young prodigy was bleeding to death.

And that was only the first shot.

The madman from the rival family, Michelangelo Ligouri, casting all personal relationships aside, cocked his shotgun again. He was wearing his best funeral clothes and a torturer's smile.

"Let's rock."

"Wait, where was I?" Tripsy snapped out of it to see X asleep and Y close to falling asleep. He cracked his jaw.

"You asked us if we wanted to hear a really boring story about why Michelo wasn't your friend anymore and we said 'no'."

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George apparently didn't know a damned thing about ropes. Mirabeau did. Knotted tightly in his fists was the rope that the Jack of Diamonds had used to restrain him. George himself was sleeping contently in the cot before him. For a year, Mirabeau dreamed of this moment, when he could get that pop culture trash back for everything he'd done. The mercenary-turned-convict even considered waking the redhead and drawing the hatred out, but he restrained himself.

He had grabbed onto the support beam over their heads and tucked his legs to ensure it would hold at least his weight, then stood up and let the rope unravel in his hand, showing that he had fashioned it into an impressive noose. As soon as it was around George's neck, he would hang him from the support beam, kicking any support he could have away. It would be sufficiently painful and almost completely silent.

His hand sounded like a breeze as it dropped the noose under George's chin and pulled all of that hair through it. Much to Jean's surprise, it was soft. He had expected it to be stiff and brittle from whatever hair care crap he put in it. Gently, he pulled the rope over the support beam and grabbed the other end.

"Doing that isn't going to get you into the gundam fight, you know." Raymond Bishop stood outside of the tent, shielded behind impenetrable shadows. Mirabeau nearly leaped out of his skin, but he didn't show it.

"There are things that you don't know about this gundam fight, sir." Mirabeau growled softly, "But let's forget that for the moment, this is between men."

"I am an old man, Jean-Pierre, I would give my life to defend my master, but honestly I don't think I could stop you from doing anything. I could only hope that what struggle I could put up would wake George in enough time to save his life."

The convict chuckled, "Flattery will get you nowhere, old man."

Raymond shrugged helplessly, 'It is merely the truth. I only ask as a man with no children of my own, that you abandon your pursuit of this selfish ambition."

"Now, why would I do that?"

"The authorities will be searching South America with a fine-tooth comb, my boy. Sparing George will give you precious time that you could use in your escape. Perhaps you could live in Neo Mexico or Neo America if you'd like. Start over. There's nothing stopping you but your own vengeance. How long could you last with Interpol and your own legion chasing after you? Weeks? Days? Hours?"

"You'd let a convicted murderer go in order to save this guy?"

"I am merely advising you on the best possible option you have right now. I suggest you go south, avoiding the other camps in the area. Especially Neo Russia and Neo Japan."

Mirabeau stared at him.

Raymond added, "Besides, isn't getting away right from under George's nose good enough?"

Mirabeau smiled, actually smiled, "I like you old man, see you around."

He was gone.

Almost exactly five minutes later, George was awake and running as soon as he heard the blast. The damaged and certainly weaponless Mirage Gundam was tucked neatly away in a military mobile suit transportation ship, now only a star in the night sky.

"Rise-!" George was about to snap for the Gundam Rose, but was cut short by his own butler, who grabbed his hand.

"Raymond!" George snapped, "Unhand me at once!" The hunger to get this uncommon criminal back under control and to justice was driving him mad. One good turn apparently didn't get another as the convict escaped to the north.

"I cannot do that, I promised him another chance at escape."

"You did wh-?" "-in exchange for your life." Raymond explained bitterly, "The legion was too late; they're all too much like Mirabeau." The young master looked ready to rip Raymond's head off until the older man tugged at the noose still around his neck.

"What do you-?!" George grabbed at the rope.

"It's hard to be a mercenary when there are no wars to fight. Whatever unit is supposed to be pursuing him intended to give him enough of a head start to make the game more sporting I'm afraid. What do they care for a gundam fighter that trumped one of their own?" Upon hearing that, George sobered. What did it matter that he hadn't been the one to turn Mirabeau back into justice? Not even he could hide from Neo France's finest.

George slowly pulled the noose back over his head and held its solid weight in his hands as if it were a work of art and not a potential murder weapon, "What does Neo France care for a bunch of mercenaries?"

"Well, I hope it goes well for him." George smiled coldly, coiling the noose into a war trophy, "Master Asia isn't likely to accept a failure and the legion's combat-hungry enough to kill even one of their captains. He'll turn himself back in to survive."

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"Where's the difference between faith," Andre asked, lifting a pin held by red string, "and abandonment?"

He stuck the pin in another part of the map, closer toward the Colosseum and Chariot Manor. It translated to a loss two streets formerly belonging to the Chariot Family, now belonging to the Christianis. String the color of belladonnas was moved right next to it.

"His faith in us, or our faith in him?" Lete was accusing.

"His faith in us." Andre's expression was neutral, but his voice was cold.

"Since when," Lete emphasized, "has the boss_ ever_ abandoned us? We're grown-ass men, we don't need him babysitting us."

"No, I know." Andre sat down in the boss's chair, "But since when have we not been able to contact him? Since when did he align himself with Neo Hong Kong? He's acting less like Michelo and more like Maria."

Lete narrowed his eyes dangerously, "I don't think you realize why Neo Scotland was over here last week, Andre. In case you haven't noticed, there's a gundam fight going on. He's a gangster, yes, but he's still a gundam fighter."

"Fuck the gundam fight, Lete. That's just a game colonists play; it has nothing to do with Earthnoids and you know it. But this," Andre gestured his dinner plate-sized hands toward the map which showed shrinking territory, "this is no fucking game, and far from an ideal war. We are getting stomped. Our boys are getting killed."

"We can do this on our own." Lete growled.

"Is that another way of saying we don't need him?" Andre's lips curled into a mockery of a smile.

"I did not-!" Lete slammed his hands on the desk, "You know what I mean."

"He was a fucking genius, Lete, we all know that. But something's gone wrong. I should have seen it coming. He's not the same guy he once was. You do see the similarities between him and Howard Hugues, right?"

"It's like him to do something weird only to have it work out later." Lete said seriously.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, he's not telling us everything. I keep telling you guys, information is _everything_. There's nothing good to be had in Michelo withholding information."

"Michelo's the most spiteful motherfucker I know; nothing matters when he wants to kill somebody."

"He's poisonous, to be sure, but if you think about it, Sophia and Chistiani have far more slights against him. Why is he letting them go and chasing some..." Andre shook his head, "damned _gook _halfway around the world when we got bigger fish to fry?!"

"Because he's..."

"Lost his damned mind and not what we need in a leadership position right now."

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Their last night in Sao Paul came to a close when Mirabeau returned. Michelo leaned against the wall, legs crossed, arms folded. Wong sat like royalty in a comfortable maroon chair while Master stood, arms folded, angry at the convict who was recreating the past day's events.

Wong let out a long whistle, looking away and arms folded. Master turned his head to hide his indignation. Mirabeau's explanation of events did much to bolster Wong's faith.

"How was I supposed to know he was completely and irrevocably insane?" Mirabeau shrugged. Michelo snickered through his nose.

"Lasted longer then you did, punk." Mirabeau pointed threateningly at the Italian.

Michelo snerked, unfazed, "My opponent wasn't a gender-confused flowery Don Quixote...from Neo France."

Mirabeau rolled his eyes, "The ankle braces on your gundam kept you from moving and you panicked. You had more then ample opportunity to get out of that shining finger move, but all you did was scream."

Mirabeau chuckled and Michelo's eyes flashed.

They might have been friendlier toward each other had fate not ordained that they be enemies.

"I might let you live down your defeat, had you actually done what you had set out to do," Michelo shrugged, "But you couldn't even kill a man in his sleep."

"Let's see how vindictive you are when the authorities are after you, boy."

"Sounds like cowardice to me."

"I'll show you cowardice."

Michelo turned his head and spat a long, thin burst of white fire, then his put his feet shoulder-width apart and crouched into a grappler's stance, "All right then!"

Mirabeau brought his right fist in close to his chin and his left tucked into side, defending his chest, "Bring it on."

Wong stepped in between them, confident that neither one would hit him of all people, "Gentlemen, I think it would be best for all concerned if we had our match right now."

"That's a great idea, sir." Michelo grinned nastily.

"Let's meet at our designated places in one hour." Wong suggested, "Don't be late."

He left, Michelo following close behind.

Master snorted, "You failed yourself, Mirabeau. Don't fail me."

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The Prime Minister and the Undefeated sat side by side in a underground bunker to protect themselves. Before them was the standard monitoring equipment for mobile fighters; the Mirage's information was translated into Chinese. Wong needed no so such thing as he observed the Neros, taking up the chance to practice his language skills.

Neither man felt much like talking.

The Mirage Gundam was in such a ruined state that Michelo laughed immediately upon seeing it. The Neros clutched its sides and doubled over as Michelo chortled at his opponent's poor condition.

"You're going to fight me in that piece of junk?"

"Don't laugh yet, boy." Michelo went abruptly silent as the dents riddling the Mirage's frame began to repair themselves, one by one at first and then in whole clusters. Green wires moved with a magic all their own and reattached the Mirage's severed arm. Even the paint spread over the bare gundarium and smoothed out. In a matter of seconds, the Mirage Gundam looked brand new.

Grinning with smugness, the Mirage tipped its hat at askance to the Neros.

"I don't hear you laughing anymore, young man."

"Holy shit."

"Don't let that scare you, Michelo!" Wong scolded, "DG cells can't repair a gundam if the pilot is dead or otherwise incapacitated. He can only do that so long as he has fight left in him!"

Wong cut the connection to the Neros and turned to Master Asia, enraged, "Why does Mirabeau still have DG cells?!"

The old man grinned, "Why wouldn't he?"

Wong had never been a particularly violent man, but at that moment he wanted nothing more then to punch Master Asia in the face. It wasn't as if Wong didn't have faith in Michelo Chariot. But DG cells made a nightmare out of the weakest man, and Wong had much more riding on this match then bragging rights. Why didn't he think of infecting his stooge first?

"Gundam fight...!"

"Ready..."

"Go!"

The gundams flew toward each other, but rather then lock, the Neros banked right and kicked the Mirage in the shoulder and head. The shoulders of the Neros opened and fired hidden satrycon beams. Michelo himself landed some distance away.

Mirabeau shook off the blast with relative ease and opened the missile pods on the forearms. He locked onto the Neros and let the missiles fly.

"Oh shit!" The Neros doubled back, leaping to avoid the rockets as the earth exploded all around him. He banked left and out of the smoke to lunge for the Mirage Gundam.

Mirabeau used the much faster laser cannons of the Mirage to hit Michelo in the side, causing the Neros to hit the ground.

"Too easy." the Frenchman scoffed and leaped to stand over the prone Neros.

Michelo's eyes snapped open and he rolled away and to his feet. Jean Pierre grabbed the Neros's wrist and yanked him forward, kneeing Michelo in the gut. The Italian responded by deploying the hidden spikes in the knuckles and punching the Mirage in the chest. The spikes punched through the gundarium like tin foil. Mirabeau looked up to see wires that the spikes had displaced.

"You nearly hit **me** in here, _enculé_!" Mirabeau exclaimed, shoving Michelo's fist away roughly. The DG cells again repaired the holes in the Mirage's chest. Unfortunately for Mirabeau, the DG cells couldn't completely repair the damage as the Neros had become a hurricane of kicks, aiming to deal damage faster then the Mirage could repair.

To Master, he shouted, "You told me he wasn't going to use his fists!"

The aqua-haired man grabbed the Neros Gundam's ankle and yanked forward, causing Michelo to fall on his knee. When the Italian tried to roll away, he gave away his back, which Mirabeau took full advantage of. He threw himself onto the Neros and locked him into a rear naked choke. One arm was pressed to the Neros Gundam's neck with the hand grabbing the Mirage's shoulder, and the other was pressing Michelo's chin into the Mirage's elbow, delivering a rather effective blood choke. Mirabeau leaned back and cut the circulation to Michelo's brain. If the Italian passed out, the trace system would disengage and Mirabeau would win, then neither pilot would get hurt.

Knowing he had only seconds left and black spots dancing in his vision, Michelo shoved his left hand between Mirabeau's elbow and his own neck and pushed away with his own elbow. Wrapping his right arm over his head prevented the Mirage from trying again. Knowing that he'd lost the choke, Jean hugged Michelo around the stomach, promoting the much more agile man to kick off the French gundam's legs and crawl out, then start kicking for the joints of the gundam.

Flustered, Mirabeau released the entire arsenal of what the Mirage naturally had to put some distance between himself and the Neo Italian whirlwind. The forearms, shins, feet, and chest of the Neros were glowing orange with heat and warnings blared at Michelo from inside the cockpit, but he ignored them. The Neros went airborne from the blast and Michelo landed in a crouch. As soon as there was clearance, Mirabeau blasted away once more, this time with the chest cannons.

That weezel attack had been particularly disastrous in his fight with the Shining Gundam because of the braces on the Neros's feet; just as this attack could be. Michelo couldn't move his mobile fighter as long as those were down. He shot into the air a split second before the ground around him burst into flames.

Like a ballerina, the Neros arched its back and kicked its right leg back, twisting as much as its frame would allow while still charging the satrycon beams. With a mighty swing, Michelo released all of the tension in his back and let the energy fire off.

As ridiculous as the spectrum beam kick may have looked, it was frighteningly effective at countering Mirabeau's carpet-bombing techniques. It was a risk to discover in the middle of a gundam fight, but all the Neros needed to fire all satrycon beams at once was either a brace or enough counterforce so the Neros's legs weren't kicked out from under it.

Amid the fireworks and aerial explosions, Mirabeau looked around for the Neros. He could see the shadows flickering off the cliffs and trees around them, but the Neros itself was missing. He could neither see nor hear the enemy gundam because of the ruckus they had both caused.

"Where is that mother..." A lightning bolt cracked the back of his head, causing Mirabeau's stomach to lurch and him to fall forward. His face hit the floor of the cockpit in time with the Mirage hitting the dirt. He could hear sickening, mocking laughter as the Neros bounced off the Mirage's head and landed in front of him.

Michelo lifted his foot high above his head, then let it drop on the Mirage's head, crushing it.

"Hmph." Michelo stepped over the Mirage and smiled, "Too easy."

Michelo made it about three steps before a train hit him in the back and engulfed him in flames. He was hit so hard he couldn't scream and he found himself in the dirt. As the gundarium cooled, the Neros's back was ashen gray- the paint had been burnt off.

The Mirage was standing, its head growing out of its neck like some sort of nightmare. Its already red eyes burned.

The Neros pulled itself to its feet.

Michelo gasped, "What the hell?!"

"You weren't expecting me to turn over my spot for the four kings just like that, did you?"

Wires spread out over the Mirage Gundam's back and formed a cluster of missile pods. Mirabeau had the Neros Gundam's head in his chest before he could fire any missiles. A speed tackle sent Mirabeau crashing into a white stone cliff. Using the spiked knuckles, he punched wherever he could, either hoping to cause Mirabeau pain, or to hit the cockpit.

Jean-Pierre punched Michelo in the gut and fired off more homing missiles from the forearms. Master was right, as long as he was out of range, Michelo was helpless. The Neros leaped forward, trying to close the gap enough to do something. Mirabeau was determined not to let him. He locked onto the Neros.

Michelo jumped over the first cluster of rockets, and leaped to the right, determined to close the gap. If Master was going to use DG cells, then he was also intending to use lethal force. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

The Mirage fired off the chest cannons at once, hitting the extra armor on the crest of the Neros's helmet and the added shoulders. Michelo head-butted Mirabeau in the teeth, then flew out of the way with a sudden burst of thrust. This time he simply tucked his right leg, whipped around, then fired off the Silver Kick. The white fire cooked off the rockets that Mirabeau inevitably shot at him, causing them to explode in his face.

The Mirage shot out of the smoke at the Neros, its face scarred with recovery. Michelo took an elbow to the chest, then a brutal backhand to the face. The Neros hit the ground, followed by the Mirage, who dropped onto the Italian's stomach. This time, Michelo saw his cockpit begin to cave.

"Wong...?" Mildly claustrophobic, he felt a twinge of his sister's cruelty surface.

The almost plea made Master laugh and Wong snarl, _"Huai dan!"_

There was understandable risk in putting one's faith in any person, even in someone as exceptional as Michelo, but the idea that he could lose control of the Devil Gundam because of something he couldn't have prevented was just too cruel.

With the knife edge of his hand, Michelo swiped one of Mirabeau's ankle out from under him. The Frenchman took to one knee, allowing the Neros to sit up and Michelo to head-butt the Mirage in the face, twice. Michelo locked his left ankle into Mirabeau's knee and grabbed the shoulder armor opposite of Michelo's canted leg. He kicked off with his left, sending them both rolling, leaving Michelo on top. The chest cannons hit Michelo square in the chest and blasted him to a standing position. The older man stood up and pointed his forearms at the Italian and prepared the chest cannons.

"Game over!"

"You wish!" Michelo bent his left leg and swiped right, catching the Mirage in the elbow and breaking its pilot's arm. Then he straightened his leg and kicked the Frenchman in the chest, his heel shoved into Mirabeau's chest cavity.

The gladiator jumped into the air and with a boost, he landed on the Mirage Gundam's shoulders, then jackhammered Mirabeau's face. He finished with a kick to the cockpit.

Mirabeau could barely breathe and his arm was effectively useless. His nose might even have been broken, he felt blood ooze down his face and heard it drip to the floor. He felt gaps in his teeth. The legionnaire doubled over and let loose a cyclone of missiles.

Then the very air was on fire.

Mirabeau was laughing like a maniac as the world evaporated around him. His eyes were burning with the heat and light.

"Let's see you get out of that!"

Wong had visual to the inside of the Neros Gundam and all of its biometrics, the heat in that cockpit was well beyond survivable temperatures. Michelo himself was crouched, shielding his head with his forearms. His black trace system was alight with red. From the camera's angle, Michelo's face was invisible. Deep inside the Neros, the wire casing melted and fused the wires together. The camera went dead, making Master smile and Wong want to rip out his hair. He was probably sweating as much as Michelo was, if not more.

All input from the Neros ceased and from the aerial cameras, it simply wasn't there. The carpet-bombing went on seemingly for hours, obliterating the jungle and anything foolish enough to be in it. Dog-like teeth were exposed in a cruel grin as Mirabeau looked around him, "The Neros has got to be molten sludge by now."

The Frenchman looked around to confirm his kill. He turned his head behind him.

A great golden angel burst out of the artillery flames from behind, shrieking that all-too-familiar demonic howl. The Neros had turned gold-white with heat, but its resemblance to the devilish hyper-mode was unmistakable.

"What?!" Instead of a kick to the back, Michelo simply threw the Neros onto the Mirage, taking him to the ground. The nanotechnology burned away from the gladiator's incandescent touch, exposing the rockets.

"There's no way!" Master and Mirabeau shouted in unison. If Master Asia couldn't summon the peace of mind to activate a true hyper-mode, then a manic-depressive sociopath couldn't do it either.

The armor was warping with heat and the Neros advised pressing the armor release and when Michelo didn't do that, went so far as to suggest that Michelo escape using the core-lander. Like before, his hair was whipped around like a victorious, but tattered, flag. The walls of the cockpit burst around him and the air was filled with acrid black fumes. Michelo began to choke.

"You're going to cook off the missiles!"

"That's the point!" Soot streaked with sweat and blackened his face.

"You'll kill us both!"

"I sure hope not! But what does a convict care?"

"You're fucking-!" He couldn't even finish as both gundams became black shadows amids the golden white light.

"Oh shit!" Wong and Master exclaimed in unison.

"I suppose the winner could be the one that has enough left to resurrect?" Master joked to hide his nerves.

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"Double knockout?" Trip wondered from several miles away, looking through electronic binoculars. He paused to put on his sunglasses, "The Neros has had it."

The wind from the explosion knocked his hat off and hid it in the trees.

The battleground looked like a scene from Hell. The forest was now an ocean of flames and the burning wreckage was all that could be seen. One lump might have been the Neros, and it was the most complete. The Mirage, on the other hand, didn't even look like a gundam.

Slowly, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket, prepared to give Maria the news she didn't even know she feared the worst. Then he paused when his eyes saw movement.

The Neros sat up, colorless and shaky. The ashen-haired pilot couldn't even stand; he simply sat on his knees. The chest had been torn open, exposing Michelo to the burning air around him. If he had underestimated the power of those DG rockets by even a decimal, he would have incinerated himself.

Exhausted, Michelo obeyed his gundam and flipped a switch. With a hiss of superheated steam, the the armor simply fell off the gundam. Bare wires, suspensions, and pistons were exposed and quivering in the air. Michelo picked up his helmet and touched it to his forehead. He was concussed and parts of the trace system had melted to his skin. The poor mobile fighter dropped its helmet and let its head relax so it was sitting there limply amids the destruction. The trace system finally disengaged, leaving the Neros broken and Michelo spent.

Even so, he started to laugh.

And laugh.

"I beat him!" Michelo threw his head back, cackling and coughing, "I can't believe I won!"

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Wong laughed too. Laughed from a mixture of relief, disbelief, and triumph. He knew he shouldn't gloat at Master's misfortunes, but some things couldn't be helped.

Master looked like he'd eaten a crow.

The Prime Minister looked up at the Old Master, loosening his tie, "Michelo it is, then?"

Master grunted and folded his arms.

"What should we do with the Mirage?"

"Leave them both." Master stomped out of the room, "They're of no use to us."

Wong pressed a button, then found that the comm system on the Neros was inoperable.

"Congratulations are in order, Michelo." He said anyway, reaching for a bottle of champagne on the floor, "Welcome to the Four Heavenly Kings."


	7. Heart

_Twelve hour shifts and shitty internet connections make it extremely difficult to write anything, so I apologize if chapter's a little substandard. Fixed the cut-off bit at the end, I think it's the only really important part of the chapter; everything else is just fleshing out the negativity between Master and Michelo. Read on if you got a taste for sadism.  
_

Heart

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Before Michelo left to train with Master Asia, he had one thing he wanted to take care of.

He was back in Sao Paul, in front of Mestre Ababelado's Caporia academy, cellphone in hand. Gauze covered parts where his fight suit had melted to his skin and he wore mostly black.

Perhaps the only reason he ever liked the Italian military was the training it offered. Explosives training, in his case. His crowning achivement before he left had been a feild manual meant for international law enforcement and military explosive ordinance disposal. It was, however, passed over in favor of a manual that better touched on disarmament and detection over Michelo's manufacture and 'lessons learned'. The manual would eventually be leaked, and it now found mass distribution amongst revolutionaries, mercenaries, and curious readers everywhere as the 'The Urban Terrorist's Improvised Explosives Cookbook'.

Everything in that manual was also stored in the collective brain trust of one mad, mad individual who was not even credited in name in most copies.

"I'm getting sick of losing."

He pressed the green button on his cellphone and watched the schoolhouse burst into flames.

Sore loser didn't even begin to describe it.

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"The Neros..." Trip hadn't grasped the extent of the damage until the smoke and fire had cleared. Most of the armor was useless scrap gundarium hardly fit for a commercial spacecraft, and the Neros itself looked better when Domon Kasshu had finished with it. Christiani didn't even want to think about damage costs. Even from three hundred meters, through binoculars, the idea that he could repair such damage was ridiculous. The idea that Neo Hong Kong expected _Michelo_ to do it more ridiculous still.

"At least you won; though I don't see how that matters anymore, bastard."

Granted, he wasn't even supposed to be here, the skeleton remembered, so it wasn't supposed to be his problem. But he still owed allegiance to Neo Italy, and he wanted to see Michelo win the gundam fight as much as any Italian. Their second-chance at the gundam fight couldn't be lost this easily.

The dark-suited man stepped out of the woods. His oxfords made a loud crunching sound as his weight snapped burnt black twigs. From his jacket pocked he pulled out his cellphone to request assistance from the Ministry of Defense.

He snarled and spat, cursing Michelo as his mind was already calculating what he had to do to ensure Neo Italy's place in the gundam fight. Whatever experiment Neo Hong Hong was conducting was irrelevant compared to what Neo Italy could do with this unprecedented blessing. And Maria let Trip know that personal vendettas could wait until after the gundam fight. Trip cracked his jaw as he imagined putting Michelo down for good as soon as this dreadful year was over.

A loud engine interrupted his thoughts and the Italian took cover as a Neo Hong Kong ship filled the sky.

"What are they doing here?" Trip demanded, hand keeping his hat in place.

Harpoon-like barbs shot into the ground around the fire-bronzed gundam and the blackened remains of its armor. A loud electric humming filled the air as strands of energy formed a net around the Neros.

"Who the fuck they think they are?! They're stealing a sovereign nation's gundam!"

Helpless to do anything but watch, Christiani filled out a report -a short form detailing what had just happened on a tiny laptop and sent it directly to Maria.

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The phone rang.

Maria, buried in paperwork, answered, "Christiani."

"Wong." the smooth voice corrected.

"Prime Minister Wong?!"

"The one and the same. Good day, signorina."

"Sir, do you need me to patch you over to the President, because I-"

"Ms. Ligouri, you're the only one in that whole cabinent with enough brains to talk to. The gundam fight is in your lane, after all."

"I see..." She was flattered, "is it about Chariot?" If he had gotten himself in trouble again...

"Somewhat, it's about the Neros."

"Wh-what happened?" The Neros was her pride and joy. The first gundam created under her watchful eye. If Michelo had destroyed the Neros again, he would pay.

"Michelo Chariot actually did something noble for once. He destroyed the Mirage Gundam. When you get a chance to talk to him, congratulate him. He did very well."

Maria smiled, "He is our fighter for a reason. Even a criminal deserves a second chance."

Her tone made even Wong's stomach lurch with its saccrine sweetness, "The bad news is, the Neros is almost completely destroyed."

"What!?" Her tone reached glass-shattering octaves.

"Now, now, the head is still mostly intact, so its not as if he's been disqualified. Given the circumstances, I am willing to offer my nation's services to repair the gundam ourselves.Your flightcrew is in most need of assistance and our very own Master Gundam isn't far away."

"Sir, you must understand, I can't give you my nation's secrets! If you need the plans to the Neros Gundam, I'm afraid it would take an act of parliament to agree to-" "Oh, I don't think I'll need that. I would just like your blessing to allow Master Asia to assist as a sort of reward to stopping a dangerous criminal."

"O-of course, Prime Minister, thank you for your kindness, I'll give the crew orders to allow Neo Hong Kong to provide relief and I hope our fighter isn't much of a-" "Oh, signora; signore Chariot is a perfect gentleman. I very much enjoy his company and look forward to seeing him at the finals."

Wong hung up and hid a disgusted face.

_I hate talking to her!_

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Gagging, Michelo gently rubbed the boiled black latex from his bicep. It slid off in one sickeningly smooth piece, taking with it a layer of fried skin. Exposed to the air now was new pink-white flesh, slick with saline and stinging. His hair was tied up into a tight bun and greasy with gel, least even one stray hair land on his burns.

He was sitting on a bed in some backwater town in Neo Guyana, while Master watched him carefully. Strewn across the room was gundam maintenance equipment from both the Neros and the Master.

"So, those were DG cells..." Michelo remarked. He was thinking of what he could do with that kind of power. Blowing himself up seemed rather stupid in hindsight, given the current state of the Neros. DG cells and the regenerative properties they offered seemed almost a necessity now. Even if he did swallow his pride and go to his flight crew for help, it was doubtful that they had the ability to bring the Neros back even they tried to agree to disagree and -God forbid- work together.

"You haven't seen the extent of the Devil Gundam's power. That small taste of self-recovery is only the beginning."

"So when do I get DG cells?"

Angered that Michelo would be so arrogant as to ask for assimilation, he snapped, "Fool! What makes you think you can handle that kind of power?!"

"Well, I beat a guy-""-For Mirabeau it was a matter of life or death! As you are, the DG Cells would turn you into a zombie within days!"

"A zombie?"

"DG cells don't kill you, boy, if you think of the end result as some form of life."

With a suddenness Michelo had come to expect, Master lunged, swinging his foot out for a roundhouse. Automatically, Michelo blocked with his own foot, catching Master in the ankle. Master twisted his body around and spun in midair, knocking Michelo in the ankle with his other foot. The Italian rolled off the bed and to his feet and assumed a grappling stance.

The older man smiled smugly and jumped forward, the blades of his hands coming down, apparently for Michelo's sholders. Master's wrists met the blades of Michelo's hands, which twisted and grapped his wrists; the Undefeated in turn grabbed Michelo's wrists and yanked foward.

Michelo stuck his head out, the dome of his head, just above his hairline and stuck his knee out. Master couldn't see both coming and blocked Michelo's knee with his own and got a noseful of Michelo's hair, and the hard skull that followed it. Letting go of Michelo's wrist, he backhanded the redhead under the chin and punched his throat.

Had he hit center, he could have very well killed him, instead, it was a hit to the softer and more pliable cartaroid artery. It didn't feel much better and Michelo doubled over, coughing. Master dropped the younger man with an elbow the the back of the head.

"Not too bad; you can at least keep up with me. I suppose you did earn your spot as a Heavenly King."

"Gee, thanks." Michelo glared from his knees, red in the face and coughing.

Hidden in Master's sash was a gundam combat data disc. He held it to Michelo.

"This has all been taken from the Master Gundam's combat data. It was taken from the Shinjkuku incident, when your mind was so fragile that you were doing the Devil's bidding without DG cells!"

"I was doing what?"

Master shook his head and his eyes held amused pity. He patted Michelo's head, which worked loose a few strands of his bangs. Making a face, Michelo swatted his hand.

"Watch the Shinjuku incident from my eyes, Michelo. Perhaps you will understand better then the others. Tomorrow, we start training."

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Michelo slipped the disk into a tiny lush-green laptop he affectionately called Nerino. Nerino, being a cut-down, miniature version of the operating system on the Neros, knew exactly what to do with the data and played the battle data. To see as the Kowloon Gundam fighting was bizarre. To see the Devil Gundam in action was stranger still. Nostalgia filled him as everything came back to him.

He was in Shinjuku again, trapped in the wake of a dream, instead of seeing the fight through Master's eyes. He was seeing them though his own.

Michelo crouched, eyes gleaming.

"Where the devil has Argo gone?" The uniformed woman wondered as she wandered, hopelessly lost.

"He knows better!" She snarled, "He knows better then to wander off like this!" She was trembling with fright and righteous anger, lost in the darkness in a strange place. Master Asia had a strange taste when it came to meeting places. Burnt-out, gundam-torn Shinjuku, Neo Japan was about the last place she had in mind.

"Argo!" She called, "Argo, where are you?!" She was loud to proove to herself that nothing that went bump in that artificial night.

_Don't harm them._ It whispered in his ear.

Michelo stood up and stepped carefully through muddy water, his footfalls as sounded as innocent as dripping water. He could have walked naturally, so deafened with fear and anger and desperation was his prey.

As the Italian moved in, he got so close to her he was walking in her steps. His right hand scooped over her mouth and right under her nose, forcing her head up. His left arm wrapped across her neck and grabbed his right collar. She fought like a tiger for roughly seven seconds, kicking and tearing at his arms. Then her blood-starved brain gave up and the Russian was limp in his arms.

Michelo picked her up as easily as if she were a doll and carried her off to where the others awaited assimilation. So perfectly formed they could have been man made, the Italian carefully laid her down to rest and closed the glass lid.

"You sure you wouldn't like a dose?" Master Asia had come up from behind and stood back-to-back with him. Sneaking up on Michelo was not an easy thing to accomplish.

"So I can be eaten alive?"

"The damage it does to the body is extensive, but the power it gives brings Domon Kasshu to his knees."

"I wanna see the long-term side effects first."

"I will give you that chance, but Neo China will be arriving soon, so I want you to be ready. Do you think you can handle a pair of Xiao Lin monks?"

"I'll be fine."

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Michelo awoke airborne, his heels over his head. Master was striking a pose on his bed, looking rather comical upside down.

Extra-judicial punishment had been comparatively harder, but not by much. At least the demon instructors at the Officer's Candidate School had been restrained by laws and order.

The extremist Oldtype that went by Master Asia had no such scruples.

Michelo's vision of the floor was blocked by his own hair and in seemingly slow motion, the Italian twisted his body around so his hands were under his chest and his feet were out. His heels caught first, but the momentum was too much and Michelo greeted the wall behind him ass first, then back, then the back of his head. He gasped in pain.

Of course Master didn't stop there; he was throwing punches and kicking before he ever got in range. Michelo could feel the wind from them from yards away.

Roll and don't corner yourself. Michelo thought with odd clarity. He did, and Master's forearm greeted his neck. Michelo let his knees out from under him and the rabbit punch hit only air.

But so did Michelo's side kick.

"What the-?!" The redhead looked up to see Master balancing perfectly on the ball of his ankle, his body barely registering the weight. Master smiled arrogantly, as if he were chiding a naughty child as he reared his right foot back. As his foot flew toward Michelo's temple, the Italian caught it and yanked, bringing the older man forward.

He was too unbalanced to see a slippered left foot smash into his field of vision, sending the younger man rolling across the room, knocking over two chairs and a table in the process.

"Hmph! Land a hit on me within the next five minutes, and I'll call you the King of Hearts!" Master laughed.

For the same reasons that drove the Italian to hate Domon Kasshu, Michelo wanted nothing more then to hear Master Asia call him that in that single moment.

_This fucker thinks he can mock me?!_

Michelo rolled to his feet, too angry to remember the basic tricks that made caporia deadly. He charged.

Master was waiting. With a round house, he completely sailed over the younger man and managed another twist in the air to kick Michelo in the back. With a slight whimper, Michelo stumbled, but did't fall. He tried a roundhouse, but the old man merely ducked under it and tossed the redhead's leg, putting Michelo on the ground. Kicking his legs, Michelo was back on his feet, hyperventilating with anger. He glared at Master with a burning look that brought countless hardened gangsters to their knees in tears. Master laughed, seeing young Domon in Michelo's place. Easily frustrated, impulsive, and arrogant, it amused the older man to easily fend off this gundam fighter's moves and think about how well they must have gotten along.

The alarm clock blared, signaling Michelo's five minutes were up.

"Well, shi-!" Michelo exclaimed. Master whipped his head in a circle, causing the silver rope of hair to wrap around Michelo's throat. The Italian let out a gurgling noise as Master threw his head back, dragging Michelo with him and throwing the younger man on the bed.

As Michelo tried to get the braid off his throat, he dimly remembered that it was attached to Master's head. A swift kick dislodged his foot and Michelo felt his own heel digging between his shoulder blades. The tension was too painful and Michelo groaned, trapped. Master was pinning Michelo with one arm. As if it had life of its own, Master's braid seemed to unwind itself and, with a flick of the old man's head, whip over his sholder.

"I guess that's it then." Master scoffed, "The only thing a gangster can seem to do is kidnap children and scare young punks!"

With his free hand, Master Asia twisted Michelo's foot, listening carefully to complex bone, tendon, and muscle systems. Michelo hyperventilated to keep himself from screaming.

_"Cane dio!"_ Michelo sounded close to tears.

"Breaking your ankle would finish your fighting career for good, wouldn't it?"

"Yes!"

"Losing your martial art would cause you to lose control of your gang, wouldn't it?"

Even more painful then that, Michelo screamed, "Yes!"

"Wong assures me that you are not unschooled, but can a painter that paints one thing call himself an artist?!"

"No!"

"A semi-master of Caporia Angola you may be, but mastery of one art does not put you at my level!" He tighted his grip on Michelo, who was whimpering in pain, "It doesn't even put you at Domon's level! Beating Mirabeau makes you a mediocre fighter at best, and the Devil Gundam at your fingertips will not give you the power you need to rise above them! You lack discipline."

The older man tightened his grip and Michelo howled. Unlike most other joints in the human body, the ankle gave no warning before it broke.

Quietly, Master growled, "Do you submit?"

Through the gnashing of teeth, Michelo managed to cry out, "Yes."

Master took his hands off the younger man and all of the tension released. Michelo shook his head and panted.

"Get dressed and meet me outside, Michelo; we have much to do." As if Master had mearly shaken Michelo awake, he spoke his peace and stepped out of the room, closing the door politely behind him.

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Michelo squinted in the flourecent lights, shivering with exertion. He hated hospitals with everything in him, and this one filled him with dread. Wong stood up to greet him.

As soon as the Chinese man saw Master's new student, he was glad he asked for him.

Wicked smile gone, eyes sunken, pale face blanched, shaking hands, Michelo looked like he'd been through hell, which he very well might have been.

"You look like you could use some cheering up."

Michelo nodded, eyebrows raised.

"Here." Now understanding the feeling people sometimes got looking at stray kittens or the homeless, Wong offered his last candybar; Michelo looked so pathetic he wanted to laugh.

_"Grazie mille."_ His voice cracked. Something sweet to contrast the bitterness of what had become of his life, that all-encompassing training.

His hand were trembling, which made the sympathy feeling worse, Michelo steadied it with his other hand and tore open the wrapper with his teeth. Wong noticed the white-pink smoothness where the skin of his knuckles had been scraped away; they contrasted starkly with the black-green dirt under his fingernails and in the fine lines of his skin.

"Allow me to show you something."

Michelo trailed behind, as obedient as a dog, knawing on almonds and chocolate. They came to a guarded room and with a retinal scan, the door swished open only long enough for the two of them to get through.

"What do you think?" The room was small and dark; the windows had been blackened out, and the only lights came from the cryogenic equipment.

"If you want my expert opinion; he's dead."

Chapman looked unreal; skin so white it was transparent, Michelo could trace the dark veins in his forehead, full of congealed blood. Like all children, Chapman had been his hero, Michelo was four when he watched this ethereal knight win his first gundam fight, and he grew up with the expectation that he would win again, and keep winning. How his country's fighters looked so false compared to the demigod of gundams!

Michelo was twenty years old when he and many others decided enough was enough; Chapman probably saw it coming.

He was frozen in a cryogenic coffin. How Wong had gotten him, Michelo didn't know. He didn't particularly care to know either.

"Wong," Michelo laughed, sure this was a joke, "I don't think he can handle a gundam anymore."

Wong nodded, his face set, "I can fix it."

Michelo pointed, "You can fix this?"

"Sure. You'll see as soon as we get to London."

"London?"

"Yes, Michelo, London, is there a problem?"

"Wong," Michelo sighed, "You must know about my whole tendency for flashbacks and all-" "I have faith in you, Michelo. I'm sure you'll keep it under control, besides..."

The Prime Minister turned to face Michelo, "What better way to rid you of your demons then have you face them?"

Michelo smiled nervously, "Sure, boss, whatever you say, but it's not my fault if a Londoner or two or maybe three or four get shot because I chose that day to flip out. And it won't be my problem." Michelo dusted the palms of his hands as if washing them of the whole incident.

Wong shrugged, "Mine either."

Suddenly, as if Michelo had to get the information across if it finished him, "Wong, I think he's trying to kill me."

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"Lete. Michelo left me in charge."

"Yeah, I know. And I'm-" Lete grunted as he adjusted the mortar tube, "The subject matter expert on fighting a war."

The roof of their bunkered, fortressed manor offered a spectacular view of Rome. On a clear day, one could see the highest domes of the Vatican. Lete was pointing a tube into the sky, using a screwdriver to adjust the height. At his foot was an AR-15 fitted with a scope and a pile of maps.

"Minor schirmishes with extreamist oldtypes or newtypes don't count, Lete. "

"Yeah, well, my spine, hips, and scalp would disagree."

As the smaller man stooped over, Andre heard the crack of his vertebrae and saw the misalignment. He shook his head.

"What is your target?"

"There," Lete pointed ambitiously, cigarette in hand, toward the skyline. Squinting, Andre saw an ebony-black tower with angels gaurding its roof.

"Aw, Lete, the Castle of Angels?"

"No, dufus," Lete handed off the AR-15, pulled the covers and turned the knob, as soon as found his target, he pulled his head away, "That."

Contrary to popular culture, the red laser dot that soilders and assassins alike used to hone in on targets isn't visible unless looking through the scope, the Christiani Jazz Academy had no idea that anything was amiss.

"You aren't gonna hit that castle, are you?"

"Nah, these mortars don't have that kind of blast radius. " Andre had been off by a hair, which translated to about a hundred meters out, "I'll adjust fire as needed."

Somewhere, the mossy-haired man had hidden the fact that he now was the same man, and Lete was committing the same acts, that used to make his life so hard.

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Michelo was aggressively silent as he packed. Warm sunlight filtered though the curtains and as Michelo rolled his shirts into tight pill-rolls, Master occasionally saw a bright flash reflecting off the infection like scales of an exotic fish.

"Michelo, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Michelo kept folding, not looking up.

"Vengence can't be your only reason for joining us."

"What other thing is there?" Michelo asked, "If a man wounds me, I'm expected to take vengence for it."

"It was just a gundam fight. What does an Earthnoid care for the winners of the gundam fight?" Master folded his arms inside his sleeves.

"It was not!" Michelo exclaimed angrily, "He spared five nations! Why did he show restraint against them and not me, Chapman, and Rodriguez? This just shows his malicious intent! Wherever he can get away with it, he kills the fighters he doesn't like." He unfolded the sloppy work and started over.

"That's not true." Master turned to the younger King, unbelieving that his pupil of all people would abuse his privileges as a gundam fighter.

"Oh yeah, Domon's an angel," Michelo pointed at Master with four fingers, "Why I bet Chapman and Rodriguez explained just how nice and friendly he is to St. Peter."

Master's lip twitched, but he had no counter to that. It could be argued that Chapman had been a plain accident, anybody could see that. But Rodriguez...Master Asia knew to take pilot data with a fistful of salt and desertion was a pretty bad offense for a gundam fighter, but did that warrant death?

"But why not just forget Domon and go on your way?"

"And just lie there and take it like some punk bitch?! Never!" Michelo spat the last word, an accent almost slipped out.

He sighed angrily, almost embarrassed at his outburst and wanting to change the subject. As soon as his hands unclenched, he asked, "And why are you aligned with this Devil?"

"The Ultimate Gundam, which has since been renamed Devil Gundam by Neo Japan, was originally going to use its nanotechnology to restore Earth."

That sounded ridiculous, considering what form it had taken when he'd seen it, but he humored the old Master, "So the Gundam Fight can destroy it as soon as it was done?"

"I knew there was a spark of brilliance within you, boy!" Master Asia cried estacally, remembering why he had humored Wong with even testing the boy, "The Gundam Fight would simply undo all the Devil Gundam's work!"

"So what the hell are we doing?"

"The Devil Gundam's plan is to purge everything destroying the Earth! Do you know what that means?"

"The Gundam Fight?"

"Think bigger then that, boy! I'm talking about the very reason we left for space in the first place!"

"We left for the colonies because the Earth couldn't support humanity anymore."

"Only an attempt to restore the Earth would just end in humanity destroying it all over again."

"But if the Devil Gundam can restore the Earth like you say it can, what's the problem?"

"Why should the Devil Gundam serve to fix mankind's mistakes over and over and over again? Mankind should pay for what its done!"

Michelo paused, tilting his head in confusion, he repeated "Pay for what its done?"

"With the Devil Gundam, I will ensure that no human will ever set foot on this planet again!"

Michelo got defensive, even if that sounded insane, he knew that the Devil Gundam was more then capible of carrying out such a threat, "And what about everyone still living on Earth?! There's hardly a soul still on the planet that can get out of that thing's wraith!"

"Every human sacrificed to the Devil Gundam spares an innocent creature's life."

Michelo thought Master was full of shit and told him so, "You are full of fucking shit. Go to any city on Earth and tell me those starving bastards deserve to be destroyed by that thing."

"You're an Earthnoid, surely you understand. If the colonists don't care about them, what better cause could they possibly die for?"

"You're insane!" Michelo pointed, "You've lost your goddamned mind!"

_"I've_ lost my mind? Michelo! You were my first choice because of this very reason! Your delicious wickedness and love of violence makes you the perfect Heavenly King! That's why I need you to achieve my ideal!"

"You're fucking nuts." Michelo shook his head, eyes on the King of Hearts, "Just like a fucking spacenoid to treat us like garbage or cattle!"

"I don't know what drives you to destruction, but I will give you limitless targets and the unbridled power to need to furfill that rage. Perhaps then you will find peace."

"Don't insult me." Michelo snarled, throwing his jacket on. He stormed out, back pack in hand.


	8. The Destruction of a Person

The Destruction of a Person

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It was overcast in Neo Guyana; the sun peeked bands of silvery light through the clouds, but it would be raining soon.

"I'll try not to die of fright this time." Michelo removed his jacket and holsters, handing them both to Wong, who struggled with its weight until Master took it. The older man simply folded it and placed it gently in a wall locker to be retrieved later.

"Stop saying that." Wong ordered.

Michelo was keeping cool and calm, but the fear was apparent in his eyes.

"Don't be scared," The Prime Minister laughed, "Michelo, it's trying to help you."

Neo Hong Kong had bought a small luxury space cruiser to disguise operations. It was a white thing with some regal-looking, fake family crest. As it lowered onto a cliff overlooking the wilderness, it could have been a rich family enjoying the tropical forests of South America. But inside it were two gundams from two separate nations.

Michelo thought he was a little young to have a heart attack, as he felt that tiny muscle in his chest quiver, and he didn't think himself one of those poor bastards that worked themselves to death and aged early. As if to doubt himself, he traced his thumb and middle finger over the deepening lines under his eyes and forehead. He swallowed, almost sick to his stomach with nerves.

He stood nervously in the palm of the Neros Gundam's hand, Wong and Master stood beside the Neros as it was offloaded the ship on a palate. As the ship took off to hover at a safe distance, Master leaped out of the open hanger door and landed on the gladiator's head. The wind whipped Michelo's hair into a red tornado before it died down. The Italian smelled the ozone and fresh dirt. The first raindrops stung his eyes.

"Why do I need to be here for this?" Michelo looked up, leaving his hand alone in midair, trembling.

"The Neros has no life to offer the Devil Gundam." Master called, "The Devil Gundam won't be interested in cold, dead, machinery; it wants life."

As quick as lightning, Master was at Michelo's side. He took Michelo's left hand in his, "It does me little good to kill you, Michelo."

Master leaped away, throwing off his sash and whipping it toward the Italian, who knocked it away with his left hand. The soft palm of Michelo's hand raked the spearpoint, tearing a ragged strip of skin right off. Master jumped away and stood on the Neros's shoulder. Michelo instinctively licked his palm.

"Quickly! Before it clots! This is your chance to seal your pact with the Devil Gundam and achive that power you crave! This is the only chance I'm giving you!"

"Feed it my _blood?_"

"It's a symbiotic relationship, just a few drops of blood should get it interested in you."

Michelo shook his head and all of the Gundam Fight came to him. How Domon, a complete stranger, had so callously destroyed his chance at the Gundam Fight.

A man who implied if he hadn't been bound by the law, he would have killed him.

_You're not going to cower to some bully are you? That wasn't some Gundam fight, that was fucking disrespect. Who is he to fucking talk to you like that?_

_Some asshole calling himself the King of Hearts thinks he can push _me_ around, does he?_

As if emotion alone could summon the heavens, lightning struck the Neros. More specifically, struck the man standing on the Neros's head. Electricity shot through the gundam and arched around the Italian before grounding out. Michelo felt his hair rise as he looked up to the Old Master, expecting him dead, knocked out, or to have miraculously dodged the bolt. Instead, he was bathed in flaming, clear blue light. Michelo had to shield his eyes to look at him. Michelo unclenched his hand and looked at the red-pink, raw flesh but the wound had already congealed. He looked back at the Old Master.

_Is this a sign?_

"Backing out?" Master grinned, which snapped the younger man out of his awe-inspired stupor. The fiery light faded away and the rain began to pour.

"You're no better than me!" Michelo snarled, shooting him a look that could kill and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Master laughed, knowing it wasn't him he was talking to.

Michelo made a tight fist, his head filled with the holier-then-thou image of Neo Japan's fighter. He adjusted his watch as tight as he could and pumped his hand until he could see his veins craw over tiny bones and his knuckles go white. He made a fist and pointed his fist away from him, the veins stretching electric blue across purpleing skin.

Master tilted his head in annoyance. Michelo looked anywhere but his wrist and his knife. He trusted his hand to know where the wrist was; he audibly grit his teeth and sniffed.

_This will not hurt,_ The Italian tried to promise himself,_ it'll be worth it._

The knife was the bow, his veins strings, and his arm the violin. Michelo's scream was the piercing first note.

Hot white pain flashed across his arm and his vision blackened for a second, causing Michelo to swear loudly in Italian. The Italian wretched, almost sick to his stomach, and doubled over, dropping the knife. He suppressed a second scream, but a stomach-turning moan escaped from his teeth. His anger had made him messy; he never meant to cut his wrist that deep.

Warm red rivers burst from his skin, turning to billows were the rain had hit and Michelo's body went cold, numb, and clammy. He lost control of his left hand, leaving Michelo to believe he'd cut right through the tendon. The pain stopped.

_This must be shock._

Leaning on the brink of falling over, the redhead extended his hand and pointed downward, at the silver pit where he was sure the Devil Gundam lay. The red life rolled off the Italian's finger and dripped, falling through space, then fell as rain onto the slick, shiny surface.

As soon as the ruby splattered on the surface of the demon's cocoon, it boiled away. The blood blotted and pooled and its donor's already pale face blanched a cadaverous gray-white.

"Geeze, Chariot, are you going to be all right?" Master sneered as he raised an eyebrow.

Michelo wrapped his right hand over the wound, "I can't stop the bleeding,"

His voice went flat. The red clouded and overtook pure water and seeped through his fingers; which were losing color with every beat of his heart, "I didn't think it would bleed this bad."

Had he known, he might have appreciated that the rainwater really was pure water; all impurities had been absorbed into the Devil Gundam.

The tinkling sound of breaking glass filled the air and both men looked over to see the cracks in the iridescent material. At it's center, there was a bulge, where something was scratching to escape.

_"Madonna..."_

"Be ready for it, Michelo." Master warned.

A great avenging angel erupted from its cocoon with a screaming hiss. It shot into the air, dripping platinum liquid metal. It was incomplete, that much was certain; it was half a gundam with wings, tail, arms, and part of a head. Where the face was supposed to be was only emerald eyes and a gaping, gray-fanged mouth. Where there were supposed to be legs were merely a stream of dull green wires, tethering it to its womb. It's chest was an open ribcage.

The humans leaped out of its way as it landed atop the Neros Gundam, hugging itself to the mobile fighter's chest. The monster seemed to kiss the Neros as its 'mouth' seemed to devour the head. Jaundice eyes lit up, as if the Neros was protesting this attacker, but sat silent as the tentacles that made the white monster embraced it in a deadly hug. It's ribcage clamped around the Neros's chest and green-white wires wrapped the gladiator in a straitjacket.

Michelo stood, transfixed, his eyes glazed as the world took on dazzling metallic colors. The Italian's hands were bloody and limp at his sides while his life still dripped and mixed into the mud at his feet. The only thing Michelo could focus on were the bright burning green eyes of the monster that was merging with his gundam.

Suddenly, the redhead's feet simply gave out and he was on his knees, sinking into the mud, ether it was from the blood loss or the Devil's hypnosis was unclear.

The beast seemed to curl in on itself and melt into the Neros Gundam as bright liquid chrome. The liquid melted all it touched and the Neros became a soupy, sludge-like monster. With green eyes, it turned to face its assigned pilot and growled with an open mouth, wings rising from it's back. Raising a mass of tentacles that used to be its arm, it reached out to Michelo with dull green wires. Before it could get a hold of him, a great white blade turned them to dust and Michelo was whisked to safety.

Master set the younger man down easily, either not noticing or not caring that his purple robe was stained with mud and blood.

"We might have to get you to a hospital, you were a sitting duck out there." Master growled, wrapping Michelo's limp arm in a white rag, "You went dumb again, though with that slash, I'm not surprised."

Master was talking to himself; Michelo only heard a dull buzzing. He only ever got like this a few times, when he was shot.

"Do you understand anything I'm saying?"

"All this blood is freaking me out!" Michelo managed to sputter.

"The blood is freaking you out?"

"Without medical attention, I'm going to die!"

Master draped the good arm over his shoulder, "You're not dying, Michelo. It's not good, but you're not dying."

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That was three days ago and Michelo hated Neo England.

The country itself left a bad taste in his mouth, though he owed his lifestyle to the insurgents that populated this fridged place. Looking back, he preferred the life of a decadent gangster to the strict life of a Caribineiri. But that was mere consequence and his unexpected blessing did not rate forgiveness for their attempt at his life, nor the failure of his marriage, the death of his brother, or the loss of his best friend. Neo England was a terrible place.

"Given the nature of this mission, you'll be doing this solo."

"You're giving me the dirty work?" Michelo simpered as he stretched black Kevlar gloves over his small hands. His jacket was folded neatly in the seat of a chair and the armor that lined the inside was draped across the back.

"You like the dirty work." Wong reminded, straightening his tie in the mirror.

"I do." His duel-wielded pistol sling wore like a set of suspenders. One suspension looped around his belt and stretched through the natural culvert of his spine, then branched out over his shoulders and looped around his belt. The bulky semi-automatic revolvers were cradled flush against the curves of his hips. Under each armpit were the bandoleers of speed-loaded ammunition.

He buckled his belt and performed a system check on each pistol. Without actually loading any bullets, he locked his weapon, turned the safety up, pulled the hammer back, squeezed the trigger, watched the hammer fall, listened to the metallic click, pulled the hammer back, put the weapon on safe, then tried to fire the weapon. When that didn't happen, he turned the safety off, pulled the trigger, then put it back on safe. Then, confident that they wouldn't malfunction inside his armored jacket, he loaded each pistol and tucked them away lovingly in their holsters. The twin Meteba Mo. 6 auto revolvers were a gift from his then father-in-law, engraved with his initials and he hated to use them.

"Those are illegal in Neo England." Just like every other handgun.

"Like I give a shit."

Only idiots and laymen believed in the fable of truly 'bulletproof' body armor, but his was close enough and he didn't want his loaded pistols to go off while he was wearing it. With an exhale of slight effort, he shrugged his heavy jacket over his skinny frame. The armor inside the jacket weighed just under forty pounds and added twenty degrees to the ambient temperature.

Even so, Michelo wrapped a pale blue scarf around his neck.

"Michelo, It's not that cold over there." Wong said from his apartment in Neo Hong Kong. They were talking with a video screen.

"Bull. It's freezing here."

"Michelo, it's September."

"I'm _cold._"

A green light beeped, "Wong, I got another call."

"I've got to go anyway, Michelo. Good luck." He hung up.

"Hey, boss?" Lete looked worried, pale and gray despite the wonderful amount of sunlight his hometown was receiving.

"Lete? You seriously caught me at a bad time, I'm about to leave."

The dwarfish man grimaced, "Boss! This is kinda important!"

"Well, what is it?" Michelo snapped.

"I gotta know, when are you coming back?"

Angry now, Michelo snarled, "Do you want a set date?"

"If at all possible."

"Something you can circle on your calender?"

"Yes."

"Well, too fucking bad, I'm still on Gundam Fighter business."

"What deal did you make to get reinstated anyway?" Lete asked, suspicious.

"None of your God damned business, Lete. I have to go."

"Boss! It's about Sophi-"

"Sophia is a wanna-be gangster Caribineiri that only keeps her job because she's fucking my sister. And Trip's not manning his own group because he's playing spy on me!"

"Boss-!"

"What?"

The violet-haired man tactfully left out _'Trip can actually work on two objectives at once, unlike you.' _but said, "The Corvi Brothers are commanding the gang now."

"What the fuck is that to me? Take them out Lete. Didn't you used to be some kind of expert?"

"So are they."

"Preserve the family by any means necessary, Lete. I have to go."

Resignation: "Fine. As you wish, Boss."

How could Michelo possibly explain to Lete, who had never so much as piloted a gundam, much less met such a magnificent beast as the Devil Gundam, why he had to continue to serve with the Death Corps? His men were competent, and the family would survive until all objectives were met. How could he possibly explain when he himself didn't understand?

_This is madness..._

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Master Asia was back in Neo Hong Kong, standing before Wong as if challenging him.

"He says_ I'm _insane?"

"I'm not one for taking Michelo's word as anything but, however...yes, that's what he said."

"What a joke."

"Haven't you learned from Mirabeau yet, Master? Don't underestimate good Michelo. He plays deaf and dumb when it suits him, but he can get a great deal accomplished on his own."

"Do you consider him at our level?"

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. He has a long leash, but I am holding tightly to the other end."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"You can return to Guyana to watch your boy, or you can keep an eye on the infinitely more interesting Michelo Chariot."

"Sounds like you're fond of him."

"Of Michelo? I wouldn't be so foolish."

As if he had never said anything, Master shot, "He's going to die Wong, the sooner you accept that, the easier it will be. "

"My favor with Michelo doesn't extend past his usefulness as a weapon and very competent minion; but I shudder to think of you wishing to spend the lives of our subordinates so needlessly. Heartlessness aside, it's _wasteful._"

"Once all objectives are met, there will be no need for him or any of the other kings."

_You got that right_, Wong smiled inwardly.

"Besides, I can think of a dozen fighters equal to him or better. He's not unique."

Wong almost defended his avatar in the Heavenly Kings, but stopped himself. He didn't want to put a friendly spin on what he wanted to remain a strictly business relationship. Instead, he blinked slowly and deliberately, "I am going to repeat back to you what you said about Domon Kasshu; you don't know him like I do."

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He visited the site with caution, well aware of his tendencies for flashbacks.

His face buried in his scarf up to his nose and hands jammed into his pockets, he stood a corner he didn't remember and looked at the streetlamp he had greeted four years earlier with the back of his head. Insane as it was, the dent was still there. Smoothed out and repainted, but there. Michelo laid the back of his suffering head against the building and appreciated the change. Four years ago, Earthnoid insurgents, disillusioned with the gundam fight and angry at its now glaring flaws, had gotten bold enough to attack the fighters themselves and anyone involved with that hated tournament.

Including him.

"Having a fair trip down amnesia lane?" the dull sound of Trip's back hitting the the wall beside him caused the redhead to open his eyes. Trip lit a weird black cigarette, filling the air with a sweet smell.

"Hardly. Wong told Maria to dismiss you."

"He ain't here, is he?"

"His eyes are everywhere, Trip."

"He hasn't seen me yet."

"Why are you shadowing me?"

"Who doesn't keep an eye on their most precious possession?"

"Maria hates me."

"Maria doesn't care at all about _you_, she cares about the Neros and it's pilot and what experiment Wong has you entered into."

Michelo became self-conscious and guilty. He didn't like traitors, even if he was one. A dull throb ached up his left arm and Michelo remembered that doctor mutter, _"You're going to have a hard time making a fist from now on, Mr. Gundam Fighter."_

"It's not like that," Michelo turned his head, then looked back at his mechanic,"Wong's just grateful for the twelfth."

"I would too, in his shoes, but, " the sharply-dressed gangster blew a smoke ring into the air, "you're still competition and his gratitude towards you can't be enough to increase his odds of failure in the Gundam Fight. Besides, he saved your life here, that should be payment enough."

"Wong saved my life?"

Trip's eyes widened, as if surprised Michelo still didn't remember; he nodded.

"I'll never remember what happened here." While he could unwillingly remember a great deal of things when it was inconvenient, the mystery behind the turning point of his life failed to surface, as if his brain had never recorded the moment at all. No embarrassing moments worthy of a cracked up combat vet, no clue as to why the world had turned around while he wasn't looking.

"The details play out like an old war movie. You don't really need to know. And I don't know, all my knowledge comes second-hand."

"What did he do?"

Trip shurgged, "Ask your lady love."

"_Sophia? _Bad blood," Michelo scowled and remembered what he was like before his tour of London; He wasn't a Stepford husband or anything dramatic like that. Ever scornful and ornery, but never with the fortitude to just _shout. _

_"Let's name her after your mom..."_

But he sure as shit could shout now. And more.

Sensing the heavy emotions, Trip coughed uncomfortably, "If ya lookin' for the Gundam Fighter here, he's dead."

"I'm looking for his wife."

"Two words: House. Arrest."

Michelo furrowed his brows at his rival, "Why?"

The other man smiled, "Tampering with an offical gundam fight."

"I can see why."

"I can see how. I managed a little construction project for the little lady right before the gundam fight, right before you framed me as an arsonist, in fact. Our boy Chapman's not quite the saint he's made out to be."

Michelo's facial expression prompted Trip to add, "I am a member of your flight crew, it's my job to find this stuff out."

"Is that what you came to tell me?"

He tipped his ashes and gave Michelo a wink, "See ya in the funny papers, Mick."

Trip sauntered away, snickering.

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Meanwhile, Manon Chapman automatically iterated, "Secure your weapon and get into a good 'standing' firing position." She said it all the time in that monotonous voice because it made him laugh.

It had been three weeks since colonial officials had placed Manon Chapman under house arrest; Sir Whitney had placed the blame for the interference of that fateful match squarely on her shoulders. Due to the high-stakes nature of the Gundam Fight, any interference in the outcome of the match was punishable by death. Luckily, news of the match hadn't escaped Neo England or Neo Japan, due to the gag order. 'Pending investigation', was the only official outcome to Neo Japan and Neo England. It would be months before she would have to stand trial for her crimes, and despite the steep penalty, Manon Chapman felt at ease with her fate.

_"I only did it because I loved him."_ She was often heard to say. And now, in the firing range in her basement, her husband was buried in the garden by the two flight crew members, just one of the many suspicious things that have happened since her house arrest.

Strong as she was, it never stopped hurting. Not after she'd lost her best friend, right hand, partner, lover, husband. The ghost bullets whizzed downrange. Not half a year ago, her husband would have had looked downrange with his spotting scope and told her if she had 'hit black' or not.

She slipped her arm around the sling and tightened it until it hurt; if it didn't, then it was too loose to stabilize. One twist around the black strap and she placed her hand around the stock of the rifle. The butt plate was pressed squarely into her shoulder. Her feet were shoulder-width apart. The standing position was the least stable of all firing positions; it was the one she was practicing.

"Remove the all safeties and load five thirty aught rounds." Manon pulled the red wire out of the barrel of Gentile's rifle, pulled back the action, inserted five 'thirty aught' rounds, closed the bolt.

"Press your selector switch from 'safe' to 'fire' and watch," She paused unnaturally, as all range safeties did and said with an upward inflection, "your lane!"

She pressed her selector switch and curled her finger around the trigger.

"Fire. Fire. Fire." he would have said when she had that perfect shot. A slow, deep, dark chant that would sound almost angelic when he said it.

With a sound of thunder, hot copper shot downrange. Her hand had already shot over the action, pulling it up and back, discarding the shiny brass jacket of a spent round flecked over her cardinal ringlets. Manon didn't bat an eye. She had nothing to fear from this rifle. Automatically, her hand slammed the bolt closed, sending another bullet into the chamber, ready to fire.

In the three years between gundam fights, he was as fine a gentleman and husband as any could ask for. A throwback to the old days of chivalry even as the stereotype of a gundam fighter became shadier and rougher; the face younger and angrier.

"Fire. Fire. Fire."

In fight years, she accepted the distance, the barriers as much as she'd accept a long and painful treatment to a disease. These were the years that destroyed lesser marriages. Manon would be remiss to think that she wouldn't be able to handle it. Behind every strong man was a strong woman, as she'd heard it.

She would remain a wife worthy of a Gundam of Gundams.

Her shoulder burned; her fingertips numbed. Manon calculated this and was careful to keep easing the trigger as normal. Jerking the trigger causes the rifle to jerk, which throws off your aim. A common soldier dies for a thousand poorly placed shots. A sniper dies for that one perfect hit. She would not falter.

Not through the tabloids. Not though the petty rumors. Not through the disgrace. She was a sniper. Let them talk. It harmed no one.

There was solace in the thunder of the rifle. The smell of lubricant and gunpowder. Rounds shot off in the dark, each shot though the head or cockpit.

Manon exhaled, relaxed her arm for a moment; let the blood back in. This was the off season, no need to stress herself. She used to tell Gentile that. They could afford their breaks.

_"I'm not going to break, dear."_

Famous last words.


End file.
